


Battleborn

by a_wake_of_vultures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amputee Dean Winchester, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dead Adam Milligan, Dean Winchester Deserves to be Happy, Dean Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dean Winchester Has Panic Attacks, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, F/M, Former Military Dean Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Multi, Past Torture, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 05:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17740118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_wake_of_vultures/pseuds/a_wake_of_vultures
Summary: "God helps whoever dares cross your way, Winchester..."Dean has the rest of his life to do whatever the hell he wants and he's spending it on life regrets. Years of military duty has left him hollow; there's no way he'll ever dump his unstable self on his family's doorstep, no matter how much they say they wouldn't mind it.Of course, he never expect a teenager to be the one to fix him. She probably has just as much issues as he does, but Krissy gives him the one thing he never even think of: normalcy.  His new friends consisted of two rebellious lesbians and a paranoid dog, and he wouldn't ask for anything else.As a cherry on the top, a certain angel is still willing to pick up his broken pieces.





	1. Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NightcoreFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightcoreFan/gifts), [Unforth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/gifts).



> Dedicated to Nightcorefan, whose story still lingers in my mind almost every day (I'm not thinking about the possible plot twists, definitely not), and to Unforth, who wrote the 'All For One, One For All' series that I re-read over and over again (you broke my heart in such a perfect way).
> 
> I do not own Supernatural.  
> If you find any kind of mistakes, do tell me. I'll do my best to fix them. This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter SPN fic, so bear with me?
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!
> 
> (Castiel will come in the later chapters. We will be staying with Dean for quite a while)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take this chapter as a prologue. It's confusing, but everything makes sense in the end.

_Once upon a time_

_I swore I had a heart_

_Long before the world I know_

_Tore it all apart_

_Once upon a time_

_There was a part of me I shared_

_Years before they took away_

_The part of me that cared_

 

_Once upon a time_

_I had an open point of view_

_But that was just so long ago_

_Before I had a clue_

_Was there such a time_

_Where I didn't stand alone_

_Was there ever a time_

_And how would I have known_

 

_I've been a thousand places_

_And shook a million hands_

_I don't know where I'm going_

_But I know just where I've been_

_I've flown a million miles_

_And I've rode so many more_

_Everyday a castaway_

_A vagabond battle born_

 

_I'm battle born_

 

**"Battleborn" by Five Finger Death Punch**

 

* * *

 

Dean Winchester can proudly say that he has escaped Death for like, a dozen times. Or maybe more.

His childhood couldn't have been considered normal, and with how many times he had to steal to feed two, sometimes three mouths since he was ten, it was surprising that he hadn't been permanently injured by the angry mass. Or drunken fools. Motel owners. Truck drivers. Hell, he had stolen a wallet from a sheriff once!

Okay, that one he did not do out of necessity. It was a dare.

But the point is, he's good at dealing with risks and dangers. He's good at avoiding his enemies and possible injuries. Something filled his old life with conflicts, people who wanted to hurt him and vice versa. He was constantly drunk with adrenaline, his senses constantly alert for the sake of his own safety. Fear and rage fueled him in his constant fight for survival.

Well, he was a master at that. Now, though, he wonders whether his luck has run out, or maybe he finally lost his touch.

"I deserve a thank you, not a sulking man in my backseat," the woman says, after a long moment of silence. Her sharp tone doesn't fit the easy smile on her face, but well, nothing surprises him these days.

"Shut up."

"Ah, so he can speak!"

Dean almost groans. As much as he appreciates what she did, her presence is irritating. "Why the hell are you even doing this?!"

"Personal grudges, mostly. My name's Meg, by the way. Nice to meet you, Winchester."

"I don't even know you," Dean retorts. At this moment, he really wants to strangle the woman but unfortunately, his hands are busy keeping the bandages on his skin.

It will scar. Badly. That sucks.

"Not against you, idiot." She grins, turning to see him for a split second, before her gaze lands back on the road in front of them. "I hate the bitch who's been torturing you. And well, the enemy of my enemy should be my friend!"

"You're working with them."

"I was," she confirms, "but things turned to shit and I just don't have the patience to deal with it. So, will you work with me? Yes or no?"

Dean is starting to consider the offer. Right now his captors must be looking for him; working alone doesn't seem like the best choice. "What's in it for me?"

"I already got you out of that place!" she whines. It almost sounds playful, but from the rearview mirror, he can see a mad glint in her eyes, "Isn't that enough?"

She might kill him. Right here, right now. There's almost no reason for her to spare him. For all he knows, she might be driving back towards that Hell, claiming to be the one who found the escapee and deserves a reward for it. She doesn't seem to be above that.

On another hand, if she's telling the truth, then he might have time to recover. A moment to recuperate, just enough to stitch the worst of his wounds, possibly gain his energy back, and have a better chance to escape.

Or, she might be lying and he will end up dead. Wouldn't change much, considering how he can barely keep his eyes open right now.

Apparently, there's not much he can lose now. Because he has nothing left.

"I never asked to be saved. It doesn't count." In for a penny, in for a pound. If she offers to help him, Dean will expect her to go all out. "What's in it for me?" he repeats.

Meg lets out a dramatic sigh. "Fine. I'll fix you up," she waves her hand, as if it's nothing for her. He would demand more respect, but he's exhausted. It can wait. "Make you as good as new, but you'll owe me. Just a little favor, really. Do we have a deal?"

Most probably, he will regret this later. But Dean won't dwell on it. The offer sounds good enough, and he's a man desperate to be saved.

"Sure."

He doesn't even bat an eye at Meg's victorious smirk.

    

* * *

 

Nothing compares to his Baby's rumble, but Dean isn't in any position to be picky. He was lucky just to find some sort of transportation—there's no bus that would take him to this no-man's-land. As old and beaten as it looks, at least 'his' car can still do its job.

After the stolen truck is parked, Dean grabs his shotgun and marches inside to finish his part of the deal. The grenades wipe down about a third of the small-fries (honestly, he doesn't give a single fuck about anyone who couldn't even reload a gun under 5 seconds. They don't worth his time), and he takes care of the rest himself. It ends as quickly as it starts; half an hour of gunfire, screaming and shouting, all kinds of chaos that just feels like home to Dean. He would've enjoyed the aftermath view, but there's still business to tend to, so he goes upstairs right away.

He finds his main target there. Azazel is sitting behind his desk, wearing a smirk on his face as Dean locks the door of his office.

"You don't look surprised."

"I know this would happen. Meg always returns, whatever reason she leaves in the first place. Every time, she would bring a new attack dog, but so far, you're the only one who really bites."

Dean raises his shotgun and pulls the trigger, only to realize that he has run out of ammunition. He curses, drops the firearm and pulls out his dagger. Azazel, unsurprisingly, isn't fazed.

"Now that's more like it!" he says, "A knife fight is certainly more interesting, don't you agree? A bullet to the head is effective, but too quick, almost boring. I prefer something more... challenging."

Dean glares, but he stays silent.

"Tell me, what would you gain from this, Dean? You can destroy me, but not my empire. And even if you can, what is it for? You won't bring them back. Not your mother, not your lover, and certainly not your dear little Adam—"

"You really think that's what I'm here for?" Dean cuts him off, irritation clear in his voice. He raises the knife in his hand, pointing at him, "Did you honestly believe, that I'm here for anything more than settling scores?"

Azazel frowns, but soon enough, it turns into a wide grin. "This is splendid!" he exclaims, excited, "I'm glad, Dean. I really am. Seems like Alastair never managed to carve that fire out of you. And that's your charm, Winchester, that's what I like about you. A secondhand product, but still hard to crack."

"Don't objectify me."

He laughs. "Oh, I've had my fun with you," he rises from his seat, rolling up his sleeves as he approaches the Winchester. "You're good, but not what I wanted. I prefer your brother, that genius little Sammy."

"You're not getting your hands on him." A bluff, but still one he couldn't _not_ say.

_Take care of Sammy, Dean. Watch out for your brother._

"I already did, remember? It was nice while it lasted. He has... Well, he was worth the effort. You?" Azazel shakes his head mockingly. "You're the brawn of the family. Just as good as whatever they wanted you to be, no more. First, you followed everything your Daddy said. Then you joined the Army and obeyed all your orders. This time, you work for that bitch. I'm pretty sure I got you all figured out already."

Dean snaps. He let out his battle cry, lunging at Azazel with his fingers wrapped tight around his dagger. The older man steps aside, grabbing the back of Dean's collar and slams his head onto the desk. Dean swings his knife blindly, grazing Azazel's side enough to loosen his grip. He then pushes himself up, trying to pin Azazel onto the wall, but he is suddenly kneed on the stomach.

"See? You're a damaged good, Dean. Can't — "

A hit onto the back of Dean's neck. His eyes widen as he gasps for air.

"—even—"

A kick to his side. He lets out a painful groan, which doesn't even last for a second.

"—fight—"

Another punch to his head. Dean falls on his knees, barely conscious.

"—properly!"

With that, Azazel pulls him up and drags him out of the room, purposefully bumping his head onto the edge of the doorway. Dean grits his teeth. _God, it hurts._ His whole body now aches, and it looks like he's dragged towards a slow and painful death.

But does it really hurt that much? Surely he's dealt with worse, right?

... Yeah, he had.

Six months in captivity, with an almost daily torture from a pair of psychopaths... nothing should compare to that.

Where's his dagger again?

... Oh, when did Azazel stab him with that?

Nevermind.

Dean pulls the knife out of his arm (thank God it isn't too deep) and stabs Azazel's hand. He releases him, and Dean, still holding the dagger, quickly stabs his enemy's leg. He shouts in pain, kicking Dean's head immediately, but it doesn't hurt.

Nothing hurts anymore.

Dean pushes himself back to his feet and into his fighting stance. Blood is still dripping from the back of his head, pouring out of his arm, staining his own fists. Azazel stumbles in his steps, but he gives Dean a satisfied smirk.

"Now that's more like it! Come at me, Winchester!"

Dean doesn't move.

"Where's all those anger just a while ago?" Azazel taunts.

Dean frowns. He let out a deep sigh, his gaze still locked on the other man, who lunges at him. He takes the hit without a single sound, though he does land on his knees. It barely aches. He should thank Alastair; his tortures seem to increase his pain tolerance, however fucked up it seems.

"I guess you're right, after all. I'm a damaged good," Dean mutters. Azazel stops his attack, taking a step back and licking his lips with a hungry look on his face.

"And what does that mean?"

Dean pulls out another spare knife from his boot, and jumps towards Azazel, pinning him down on the floor. In a matter of seconds, the blade is pressed against his neck, already drawing blood. Azazel is frozen in shock, eyes locked on Dean's. His grin, though, never falters.

"I guess it just means," Dean's glare hardens, "that I WON'T BECOME ANY WORSE THAN THIS!"

He slit Azazel's throat without a second thought.

   

* * *

  

The heat of the fire, at least ten feet from where he stands, it is enough to make Dean want to take off his shirt. Of course he won't; the woman beside him is already ogling him even with the dozen layers of bandages, clothes and more clothes.

"Color me surprised. I never knew your morals were this lacking, Winchester."

For god's sake. He never signs up for this wrench and her running commentary. "You're the one who told me to kill him. I'm just doing my job."

"Burning down the place with you in it is still a whole different level of low."

"I prefer the term 'taking precautions'. It would be nasty if they start looking for me," he says, as he glances at the brunette. She has her arms crossed, staring at him with a smug look on her face. "Why are you still here, Meg?"

"Oh, I'm just enjoying the view. Don't mind me."

Dean turns his attention back to the burning warehouse. It should hurt; it already reminds him of his mother, the night his own home burned down, it should've hurt. But he can't feel anything. Not remorse, not guilt, not sadness, not even anger or closure. The place burns. There's smoke and there's fire. That's all there is to it.

Somehow, he can't _feel_.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Dean?" He quietly shakes his head, ignoring Meg's heavy sigh. "Well, you know where to find me. If you ever need something, just ask."

"And allow you to order me around after that? No thanks."

Meg shrugs. "Your loss." She pulls out her phone and starts typing, "You'll still do it, right?"

He may have issues, but he's still a man of his word. "As long as you do the same. This talk never happens. Dean Winchester's gone, tortured to death by none other than Alastair himself." Fun. Even in a made-up story, he just can't die peacefully. "The sicko then sets their HQ on fire, and he escaped with his superior, Ruby."

Meg nods, an amused smile on her face. "And Azazel had gotten rid of the soldier's body, but he also died in the fire. Ain't that just a wild story, from start to finish?"

He can't resist rolling his eyes. "I'll give you ten seconds to shut up before I strangle you, Meg."

She grins. "Nice," she says, before she hurriedly returns to her own car, "Until next time then, Winchester."

"No, there won't be next time."

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna read more?


	2. Feral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets a new friend.

Dean has all the time he can ever get. He has the rest of his life to do whatever he wants, but even that will never be enough to make amends, so he’s gonna spend it on self-hate and lifelong regrets.

Under certain… ‘circumstances’, humans can do unthinkable things. Dean had witnessed it first-hand since he was barely five, and tragically enough, he made the same mistake. His father’s poison was misery, which led to his dependency on alcohol. Sam’s was… ambition, if not stubbornness. But Dean’s poison, well… he knows there’s a lot, so he’ll sum it up as his pent-up frustration. Rage, anger, desperation, maybe even his loneliness (he’ll die before he even admits that to anyone), he never got the chance to let it all out. There’s no time for chick flicks when your safety, your life is constantly on the line.

Dean swears he was a good man. Not the best, but he still did well. He took care of his Dad, which had been barely sober since late 1983. He raised Sammy, who grew out to be one of the best lawyers in the country. He wasn’t that bad of a person.

Maybe it was Alastair’s fault. Maybe it was Ruby’s. Dean himself might be the one to blame, too. Either way, he turned into this horrible excuse of a person because he had to. Survival of the fittest, and he’d be damned if he didn’t come out alive.

It cost more than what he could afford. His morality, his humanity, Alastair took them away. Ruby turned him numb, and Meg just pulled that last trigger. Azazel just... he just gave Dean a reminder.

The gunshots gain his attention. Dean watched as Charlie wipes her tears, again, and hugs her girlfriend for the millionth time today. Sam is speaking to a man in a wheelchair, while another brunette is talking to Castiel.

Castiel just seems… _angry_.

Of course, why wouldn’t he? Dean never apologizes, he disappeared and returns as an empty casket, isn’t that awesome?

Kevin stops in front of the podium and pulls out a piece of paper. The obituary. Yep, Dean’s gonna miss him. He’s a cool guy, that walking encyclopedia; even Adam gets along with him.

Dean can’t bear looking at the stage, not when his best-friend —after Adam, bless his soul— is giving a speech about him.

_”Before I start this chick-flick moment, as Dean used to call it, I think I should introduce myself. My name is Kevin Tran; Dean was my team leader, my motivator and my best friend. He’s like the big brother I never wanted to have. Dean once told me not to give this kind of speech, especially about him, but I can’t help myself." He turns his gaze downwards, "Sorry, Winchester, I can't leave it unsaid.”_

So Dean turns his back on his own funeral and starts strolling through the cemetery. Some names are familiar: Bill Harvelle (Jo’s dad), Rufus Turner (It’s been years and Bobby still talks about him. Poor guy.), even his own grandfather, Henry Winchester. There’s also a Trenton and a Milton; Dean had visited these ones with Cole and Anna.

_“When I first joined the marine, my mom was livid. She was mad at my decision, she was paranoid that I’ll never come back home. I didn’t know Dean back then, but he overheard our call and offered to help. I was reluctant —my mother is an intimidating woman— but Dean managed to calm her nerves. I don’t know what he said, but ever since then, my mother never complained anymore.”_

Adam Milligan. That name strikes him the hardest. Dean never had the chance to attend Adam’s funeral, and that still stands at the top 3 of his biggest regrets. Adam never deserved his death, he was a… sacrifice. A collateral damage. And he died in vain, too.

Dean is, really, the one to blame.

_”I think that’s just his gift. He knows how to tell anyone what they needed to hear without lying. I’ve seen him with women and children, they all seem to trust him so easily despite his appearance. In our missions, whoever we saved always choose to be close with him. He didn’t have to try to invite them in, they know he would keep them safe. And he will, everyone knows Dean will literally take a bullet for any stranger that needs him.”_

“I never meant to kill you, you know that, right?” Dean sits in front of the grave, “I don’t want you to die. But I don’t want them to ever have you, either. Not just for the mission. Not just for those files. I know they will do whatever it takes to get what they want.”

“They… they’re good at their job. They tortured me. He tortured me, Adam, just like how she had warned us. I hated it. I’d rather die than ever having to go through that.”

_“Of course, he’s not all sweet and gentle. He’s a soldier, and even before that, he’s already pretty rough around the edges. He never told me anything explicitly, but I have my guesses. We all have our guesses. He’s kind of a complicated person, isn’t he? Pretty sure none of you even know why he joined the Marine in the first place. I don’t, either.”_

“But better me than you, right, Adam?” Dean glances at what used to be his right leg, now just a cold numb limb made of metal. “I’m not that good of a soldier. I’m a traitor now. At least you died with your honour. I don’t even have my own name anymore.”

_“I guess we’ll never find out, huh? Well, it doesn’t matter, anyways. Contrary to your belief, Dean, you’re a good person. You’re one of the best I’ve ever known, I never regret being your friend. You deserved better than what happened.”_

“See you later, Adam.”

Dean rises back to his feet, giving Adam’s gravestone one last look.

_“We all miss you, Staff Sergeant Dean Winchester. May your soul rest in peace.”_

Kevin leaves the podium, just as Dean walks out of the gates.

 

* * *

 

The bus is quiet, way too quiet. It’s not much warmer than the night outside, but Dean can’t bring himself to complain. At least the bus isn’t that crowded, much to Dean’s relief, and the other passengers barely notice him. He picks a seat at the back, settling his duffle bag in front of his feet and leans his head on the cold window.

Dean doesn’t have any destination in mind. He really has nowhere to go; his only current goal is to get as far away as possible from anything related to his past (his life before the Army. Sam, Castiel, Charlie. Dad, Ellen, Jo, and everyone else he left behind), but physical distance doesn’t seem to change a thing. He has yet to feel that closure he’s seeking for, and though a part of him believes that he deserves none of that, there’s nothing wrong with a simple wish.

A girl sits beside him. Dean pays her no mind, but she tapped his shoulder and forces him to look at her.

“May I?” She asks, holding up a cigarette between her fingers.

“Go ahead.” She gives him a small smile and takes a deep breath before she exhales dramatically. The smoke burns his nostrils; it almost sends him back to that horrible world called ‘memory’. 1983, Adam, Meg. Smoke, blood, and gunpowders, those are the only constant things he has had in his whole life. His knee aches at the thought.

The girl catches his slight flinch and grimaces. “Sorry.” She scoots closer to the other window, turning away from him.

Dean doesn’t say a thing. They don’t talk for a while, but when she reaches half of her cancer stick, she finally him with a curious glint in her eyes.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

He nods.

“Just passing by? Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

She frowns. “Oh. Okay.” The girl turns her attention back to the window, much to Dean’s relief, but his comfort doesn’t last long. Soon enough, a burly guy enters the bus and sits between the two of them, shoving his muddy duffle bags by his sides. This new stranger reeks of alcohol; it reminds Dean of his father.

John Winchester: barely a father and more of a drill sergeant, who only functions properly after a six-pack each day. Tragically enough, John is the only one Dean had spoken to since he joined the army. It’s a mere 2-minute phone call 10 years ago, but Dean can still repeat the whole conversation word by word.

_“Dad? It’s me, Dean.”_

_He could imagine the angry look on his father’s face. “So you finally decided to talk to your old man, boy?”_

_Dean sighed. It’s hard, trying to keep his composure, especially when his father didn’t seem to have any kind of consideration. “Dad, please. I didn’t call to fight you.”_

_“That’s what your brother said before he disrespects me, every single time. How is he, anyway?”_

_Isn't it just great? Dad didn't even bother asking about him. Everything's always about Sam, no matter how horribly they get along. “I… don’t know,” Dean admitted, “I haven’t talked to him in 5 years.”_

_“He got sick of you, too?” Ouch._

_“No, I got sick of myself.” In front of him, Adam had finished his call with his Mom, and now the guy’s staring at him in worry. Dean shook his head, trying to assure him to not interfere. “I joined the Army, Dad.”_

_John growled. “And you left your brother? I gave you one job, Dean, all I ask is for you to take care of Sam-”_

_“I brought more harm than good staying with him,” Dean cut him off, “You can complain all you want, Dad, but I’m not coming back. You can consider me dead.”_

_John was quiet for a while, but when he spoke again, his voice was as cold as the dog tags against Dean’s neck._

_“I don’t have to. My sons are long gone, I lost them the moment they walk out of my door.”_

_Dean ends the call immediately._

When he returns to reality, the shady man is already leaning towards the young girl. “What a pretty little thing. Where are you going, babe?”

The girl, if Dean has to guess, must be holding back a sharp retort. Instead she grits out, “It’s none of your business.” She seems like the type who doesn’t want to be treated as a damsel in distress, so Dean decides not to interfere. He’s pretty sure she can protect herself, but he’s still gonna keep an eye out for any sign of her asking for help.

A girl that young, though... she shouldn’t have to deal with street harassment, that’s just not right. No one deserves that, especially not a kid like her. Yet another flaw in society. Had it been Charlie, or Jo, or even Anna, Dean would’ve started throwing punches. It’s just his paranoia, he can’t let that harassment turn into something physical or worse.

“Leave me alone!”

This is getting bad. “Just stop, man. She clearly doesn’t want you to touch her,” Dean says, trying his best not to sound aggressive. He’s not scared of getting hurt, but if he does, then that ‘Knight of Hell’ (as Meg calls it) will come out and play. It really is not a pretty sight.

The stranger glanced at Dean. “This got nothing to do with you, pal.” He turns his eyes back on the girl, who visibly grimaces. Her hands try to zip up her jacket, but it's stuck, which widens his predatory grin.

“You should stop bothering her, she might call the cops on you,” Dean tries again.

The drunken man scoffs. “Is that supposed to scare me?” He is now reaching for the girl’s chest, and by Dean’s standard, that’s crossing the line.

He harshly pulls the man towards him; as the guy starts complaining, Dean throws him onto the bus’s floor. Almost everyone’s attention turns to them both, but that doesn’t stop Dean from rising to his feet. “Why don’t you pick someone of your own size, you son of a bitch?!”

The other guy tries to push himself up, but Dean already has him pinned under his legs. “She told you to stop. Have you got no shame, harassing a girl at least half your age? She ain’t some kind of property, she’s her own person, and she makes the rules. Not you.”

The man glares back at Dean. “Is this another kind of that feminist bullcrap?”

Dean is about to reply when he suddenly feels a sharp pain through his left leg. He looks down, only to find a switchblade stabbed through his skin.

That’s just… that wasn’t a wise move.

“Ain’t so brave anymore, are you?” the guy mocks, twisting the said knife deeper into his flesh. Dean grunts; instead of removing the blade, instinct kicks in. He raises his fist and slams it down to the guy’s face, knocking him out instantly.

But it’s not enough. That man made him bleed, now there’s a price to be paid.

There are voices now, but they all sound muffled. Dean’s not drowning, though, so he must be fine, right? He cracks his knuckles and prepares for another punch.

Something circles around his wrist. So quick, so strong, stopping his movement. Dean turns around, ready to fight his new attacker, but this time a loud voice made him pause.

“Stop!” It’s a young woman. Sounds kinda familiar, but that never means ‘safe’. The grip loosens; Dean twists his wrist and grabs his opponent’s limb, ready to crack it if it’s necessary.

The voice grows closer, softer. “Relax. Wherever you think you are, you’re not there. No one’s gonna hurt you. You’re safe. Please, come back. You’re not in any kind of danger, you’ll be okay. Just come back to me,” the voice fades into a broken whisper, “Please.”

Fear. Someone fears him. It almost clears his mind; Dean blinks and forces himself to breathe. His chest feels so tight, like someone has been choking him, but no; he is the danger, not the other way around.

“You’re back with us?” Oh. It’s that brunette from before. Dean releases his grip around her arm.

_Why are there so many people around him?_

“Hey, hey, eyes up here. Look at me.” Dean complies. Her eyes are misty, yet she smiles at him, a kind and sincere smile. He doesn’t deserve that.

She tugs at his sleeve. “We should get out of here, no?”

Dean can’t bring himself to refuse the offer.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's chapter 2! Much longer than the first, I hope you enjoy it more, too?
> 
> Comments and kudos are so much appreciated! Anyways, see you next week!


	3. Motel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nosy kids are the worst, sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's kinda short, but well, now Dean settles to his new life.

The girl drags Dean out of the bus with ease. She continues speaking to him, even as he stumbles in his steps, even when he collapses against her once they reach the empty bus stop. She sits beside him. Her voice grows quieter as time goes by but honestly, it’s been too long since anyone had done even half of this for him. It’s more than enough.

He takes his time regulating his breathing, following her soft ‘inhale, exhale’ until he manages to speak. She waits. Not like anyone else, who keeps trying to pull him back as soon as possible. She follows his pace, and if that isn’t kind, then he doesn’t know what is.

“Did I… did I scare you?”

“You did,” she admits, “But I don’t think it’s your fault. You can’t control it.”

“It’s still—”

“Dude, stop,” he goes quiet. She moves to sit in front of him, “It doesn’t matter. You’re okay, I’m okay, nobody else gets hurt except for that pervert,” he chuckles at her comment. She grins, “That was quite a big punch you got there. You really should teach me.”

He shrugs. “We’ll see. And well… thanks for stopping me back there.”

“No problem.” He realizes that she has been carrying his rucksack, for which he is truly grateful. “We should patch you up. Do you have anything we can use?”

“I think there’s a first-aid kit in there.”

She snorts. “You think?” she opens up his bag and rummages through his things—if she notices his pills, then he’s glad she doesn’t say a thing—before she takes out what she needs.

“Should we get you painkillers? Alcohol or something?”

“I don’t bring any. Just get it over with.”

That’s exactly what she did. After eyeing him skeptically for a few seconds, she pulls out the knife lodged in his leg without warning. She keeps talking, ignoring his surprised groan. “There’s no way a guy like you don’t bring a flask or anything. There must be a secret stash somewhere in here, and you’re gonna share it with me.”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough to know my own alcohol limit. You need stitches, don’t move.” He feels the needle piercing through his skin, in and out with the thin thread. Thank God the girl can’t stop talking, it gives him a distraction. “I’ll bet everything in my pocket that you start drinking at around 12, give or take.”

“What’s in your pocket?”

“Gums, peppermints, my phone and my house key?”

Dean hums. That's not too bad, he actually likes peppermints. “I had my first beer when I was ten, kid.”

Now there's a scandalized look on her face. “NO WAY!” _Oh, what a poor, sheltered soul. If only she knows just half of the crazy shit he's done,_ “What kind of friends do you have?!”

He shrugs. “The non-existent kind, I suppose?”

“That’s even worse!” The girl exclaims, as she ties the end of the thread and cuts it off. She starts wrapping bandages around the wound, “Who gives it to you?”

 _My Dad,_ but it’s not a socially-acceptable answer, even if it’s honest. “Myself. What about your house key? Do I get to keep it?”

“Hell no!” she frowns, “To be fair, I live in a motel. I’ll give you a free room. How’s that? You look like you need it.”

 _I don’t need charity,_ Dean wants to say, but he had learned the hard way, that when charity’s all you’re gonna get, you just gotta take it, no questions asked. Moreover, Dean only has a few pennies left on him, it would be unwise to refuse the offer. “Alright,” he decides to test his luck, “Does it include breakfast?”

“Only if you make the coffee.”

* * *

Her name is Krissy Chambers. Her dad was a marine. She has a friend named Garth Fitzgerald IV (for real!) who often talks through his ‘cute’ sock-puppet, Mr Fizzles. Her pet is a one-eared retired attack dog, a german-shepherd called Juliet. Juliet likes ham and bacon, but she likes it more if Claire is the one who cooks it. Claire is Krissy’s girlfriend, they’ve been dating for almost two years and their anniversary is in two weeks. Krissy’s torn between giving ‘Claire-bear’ a hunting knife or a handmade charm, though she’s probably just going to give both if she can’t decide.

Long story short, Krissy talks a lot.

“Michael? You don’t look like a Michael,” she says when Dean introduces himself. Meg’s the one who made his new fake ID, he couldn’t exactly complain. “What’s your last name?”

“Remington.” Krissy seems surprised, amused, he can’t really tell, “Yeah, like the gun. My name’s Michael Remington.”

"That doesn't suit you any better."

"Shut the hell up."

Krissy’s motel is just about 15 minutes walk from the bus stop, but Dean’s pretty sure they spent at least half an hour with his limp. He pulls on his stitches and it bleeds again, but of course, he brushes off Krissy’s panicked apologies.

“You’re not supposed to be able to do this at all, kid. You did well already. I can fix it up myself later. I'm sure you have staplers—"

At that moment, Krissy slaps Dean's arm with a horrified expression.

They do, in the end, fix it with staplers. It's already 2 in the morning and Krissy looks exhausted, so she finally relents and allows him to do whatever he needs to keep the wound closed for the night. She hands him an old key without a number (seems like the room she gives him isn't a rented one) and tells him 'down the hall, the one with a brass doorknob' before she goes upstairs with a tired wave. He collapses on his bed not even a minute later, exhaustion taking over his restless mind.

Rare is a quiet, peaceful, good night's sleep. Even rarer is a whole day spent smoothly without a single 'accident'.

So don't blame Dean if he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Don't blame him for staring at his scarred reflection on the small, foggy mirror, trying to remember what he used to look like. And don't blame him when he enters the hot shower fully clothed, still unwilling to see what Alastair had carved out of him.

Of course, blame him for troubling another human being who doesn't deserve a burden like him.

When he finally stumbles out of the small bathroom, he finds Krissy sitting on his bed, rummaging through the nightstand without a care, as if she owns the place.

Or, maybe she does?

"Hey," he calls, "I need to change. Get out."

She turns to him, raising an eyebrow at his drenched clothes, though she doesn't say a thing about it. "Hurry it up. We're having breakfast on the second floor and I need my coffee."

"Second floor?"

"I'll bring you a wheelchair. We have ramps." He glares at her statement, earning her laugh. "I'm just kidding, Mikey."

"Don't call me that."

She shrugs, ignoring his statement. "I'll get your crutches. You don't have to use it, of course, but it might be useful."

Krissy leaves him alone after that. Dean takes his time getting dressed, dumping his wet clothes in the laundry basket (Maybe that's why Krissy was here?) before he buttons up his flannel shirt. His cargo pants are harder to put on, especially with that stupid, stapled stab wound, but he manages. His boots come next, then he's ready to leave.

Krissy's already waiting outside the door, a pair of wooden crutches in her hand. She whistles upon seeing him, shaking her head with a small laugh.

"Hey, you can actually look decent! If only you know how to smile properly..."

"You really need to work on your manners."

"I'm pretty sure we're already way past that nice-and-formal stage. I mean, you almost killed someone for me?"

He lets out a sigh.

 

* * *

 

To his surprise, Krissy isn't the one cooking. Instead, there's a woman standing in the middle of the kitchen, currently waving a spatula as she scolds another man who sits in front of the table.

"You lost a key?!"

"I really don't know! I—"

"It's not his fault," Krissy interjects. Every eye on the room lands on her, even Dean's, "I took it. The old room at the back, right?"

"Off the record, young lady?"

"Yeah." She takes her seat and motions for Dean to do the same, "I owe this guy a room. And he owes me coffee."

"Oh? What happened? Did you hurt him or something?"

"Or something."

The woman places a plate of pancakes in front of Dean and offers her hand, "My name's Missouri. No, I'm not her mother. If I was, she wouldn't have done whatever she did that brings you here. Whatever it is, I'm sorry." Krissy grunts at the comment, but obviously the woman's not amused. "It's nice to meet you, dear. What's your name?"

"Michael." He shakes her hand. Her grip is strong and firm, clearly she's not intimidated by his looks.

That's new.

She raises an eyebrow, and for a split second, Dean thought his cover had been blown. But Missouri only gives him a small smile. "Sit down. She's not getting any coffee on a school day, so consider your debt paid."

As expected, Krissy complains. "Come on... you're not my mom!"

"But I'm your godmother, honey, and I think that's close enough, isn't it?" As the two women start their banter, Dean finds the other man looking at him with a smile.

"What?"

"I'm Garth." He shakes Dean's hand with such friendliness, it stuns him for a moment, "Don't mind the ladies! This happens almost every morning, it has nothing to do with you." Dean picks up his fork as Garth leans in to whisper, "It's too early for beer, but once Krissy leaves, I can make you something. How do you take your coffee? Cream and sugar? Black?"

"Irish."

Garth snorts, grinning at him. "I think you'll fit in just fine, Michael."

Dean doesn't believe it, but Garth looks so sincere, it would be a crime not to reply with a 'thanks'. He knows that sooner or later, someone ought to be suspicious of him. It doesn't matter the reason; a man in mid-thirties with occasional violent episodes and barely any reaction to pain screams nothing but normal.

He is proven right not even five minutes later.

After Krissy leaves for school, Garth goes home. Dean is left alone with Missouri, who eyes him with a slightly disapproving look as she puts the dishes in the sink. "You're hiding something. There's a big, dark, evil shadow behind you, boy, I can feel it since you arrived this morning."

Dean appreciates the honesty, really. It's refreshing to know that someone here has the right mind not to immediately trust strangers. Of course, Dean still tries to keep his face blank. "You're telling me to leave?"

"No, you haven't given me any reason to. I won't pry, either, as long as you keep your mess out of this town. No one likes trouble here. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Now, out of my kitchen, darling."

Dean stumbles out of the room.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are like caffeine for me. They keep me awake in a good way, they motivate me to be productive! (And they don't have to be that sweet, really. I appreciate them all the same~)


	4. Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Huh. Seems like Dean's gonna be here for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late, since I'm having exams. I hope you still enjoy it the same!

Good food is a privilege. Cheap, good food is a luxury. But free, incredible food? That’s a myth.

Yet here Dean is, sitting in front of the counter, munching on his third bacon cheeseburger while ignoring the bartender’s worried gaze. Then again, is ‘bartender’ the right term? The place, _**Purgatorium**_ (so unlike the one in Miami), seems more like a diner. But it has alcohol, a wide range of it, so what’s the title? Family-friendly bar? Alcoholic-friendly diner?

Nevermind. Dean is neither an alcoholic nor a family-man. And he doesn’t have any money, he shouldn’t even be here.

But he needed a job, and the sign at the front says they can use a waiter.

“You okay, chief?” Now the ‘bartender’ is standing in front of him, wiping his hands with a rag, “You looked like you’re eating your first meal in a week.”

“Second decent meal in a year, it’s close enough,” he automatically replies, then chastises himself inwardly. He never plans on getting attached, but now he’s spilling his guts. Bacon really makes his brain short-circuits. “How much do they cost?” He can try playing pool, get some cash to pay for the meal. Or poker. Darts, maybe. It doesn’t matter.

“It’s on the house today. For your service.”

 _Fuck._ He really should’ve thrown away those dogtags.

Without a word, Dean tugs the iron chain off his neck and shoves the necklace into his pocket. “Please don’t mention it to anyone else.”

“Of course.” Sensing his reluctance to broach the topic, thankfully, the bartender lets it go. “My name’s Benny, I’m the owner. I haven’t seen you here before; just passing by or are you here to stay?”

Dean shakes his head with a forced smile. “I don’t know yet. Any suggestions?”

“Wanderers tend to settle down here,” Benny replies, “I’m one of those.”

Dean eyes the man with slight curiosity. He looks around his own age, maybe just a little older, but the guy seems nice enough. Like, that kind of friendly neighbor who would offer to fix your heater for free just because he doesn’t want you to freeze in winter.

Dean’s the type who breaks his own heater.

Anyways. Benny looks like a good man, but that still makes him feel wary. He’s sharp, that’s dangerous. But Dean needs the job, and working with this guy? Surely they’ll find out his secrets much sooner.

_Oh, screw anonymity. He’ll just ditch the town as soon as he gets caught._

“I saw the sign outside. You’re hiring?”

Benny raises an eyebrow. “You’re staying, then?”

“I guess? I really need the money.”

“Well, have you ever had a job like this before?”

_I was a mechanic, then a soldier. I don’t do customer service._

Dean cringes. “No? But I know my alcohol. And I’m a decent cook. I can work the night or morning shift, or both, whichever you prefer. What exactly is your requirement?”

Benny let out a small chuckle. “As long as you can carry a tray of food without dropping it, you’ll be fine. What’s your name?”

“Michael Remington.” It earns him a curious look, but Benny doesn’t comment. He only turns away, pulling out a notebook and starts scribbling.

“Alright. Then I expect you to be here tomorrow morning, I’ll have to show you the ropes before we open up shop.”

“What time?”

This time, his new boss has a mischievous grin on his face. “Early.” It’s a little... unnerving, so to say, but at least Benny ends it with a hearty laugh. “I mean it, chief. We’re open from breakfast to supper, I need as much crew as I can. And I need them to be punctual, if not—“

“Benny!”

“—a little polite, unlike this lady over here,” Benny finishes. “Are you skipping again, Claire?”

The blonde girl, who had taken her seat next to Dean, rolls her eyes. “No! Why don’t you trust me a little more?”

“I’d rather not. Where’s Krissy?”

“She got detention for punching Alex’s ex-boyfriend in the face.”

_Well, ain’t that a surprise?_

The girl turns to Dean and offers her hand. “You must be Michael. I’m Claire, Krissy’s girlfriend. Thanks for helping her last night.”

Dean merely nods, turning his attention to the bottle of beer in front of him. God, he shouldn’t drink at this hour, it’s still too early. But this much of social interaction is already draining him, he needs the alcohol.

Screw it.

He uncaps the bottle and takes a large gulp. It burns in his throat, a familiar kind of burn, the one that’s enough to ground him and distracts him from the dull ache in his leg.

“She said you got stabbed?”

“Yeah.”

“And now you’re walking around without help? That’s awesome, dude.”

Will she be as noisy as her girlfriend?

 _It doesn’t matter,_ Dean tells himself, _I’m not here to stay for long._

* * *

Grief is a strange thing. The feeling itself is a process, not quick and temporary like happiness, but not so unstable like anger. Grief takes time. Grief just… drains you.

Castiel finds himself staring at the letter in his hand. The young soldier, Kevin, handed it to him discreetly, not long before the funeral starts. “He barely spoke of his life before the army. But you and Sam, you’re always the exceptions.”

He doesn’t know what to feel about that.

Castiel doesn’t want to read the letter. It feels like some sort of finality. Dean’s last words, whatever they might be, will never be the ones he wished to hear. It would be full apologies, and that’s not what he’s looking for. He just wanted answers.

Everyone just wanted answers, right?

Why did Dean leave? Why did he join the army? Why didn’t he ever contact them for what, 15 years? Why did he have to die?

Why did Castiel even start all of this in the first place?

Now Sam locks himself up in his room, only talking to his girlfriend. His father only gets worse. Charlie can’t get her eyes off her computer, sometimes spending the whole day without food and water, doing raids even when the rest of her guild goes offline.

Because Dean’s dead.

He doesn’t have a body left to bury. Chained up while his captor’s hideout burned down, Dean probably died screaming.

The thought made his stomach churn.

Nobody deserves that, especially Dean. With everything that had happened to him, everything he grew up with, he should’ve died in peace. That’s the least he deserves. Dean deserves a break, some kind of a win, a happy ending.

Life has been too cruel to him. Always, always too cruel.

Castiel remembers the look on Sam’s face, the moment the soldier appeared on his doorstep. The uniform says it all. The dogtag in his hand only confirms the worst. Sam didn’t cry for a long time. He didn’t say a word for three whole days. When he finally spoke, his words broke Castiel’s heart.

_**“I still need my big brother.”** _

He’s furious. At life, at fate, at God, at whoever makes this fucked-up scenario. He wants to scream and yell at the sky, at Heaven, “You have so many angels already! Why do you have to take mine?!”

“But he was never yours,” a quiet voice would whisper back, and that sentence continues to echo in his mind.

He can’t even cry. He can’t even shed a tear.

Castiel can only accept all those empty condolences, even when he feels like his world is crumbling around him.

Grief is a strange thing, indeed.

* * *

Soon enough, Dean falls into a (kinda) normal routine. Wake up, shower, work. His boss, Benny, likes him (enough to allow him to accept dares from customers), and while he has yet to meet his other co-worker, everyone says they'll get along just fine.

Sure, for days he works alone, bartending and taking orders (delivering them is Benny's job—Dean is always tempted to steal a French fry). He beats people at darts, but pool... well, his legs start shaking after about ten minutes or so, he can't expect much.

But the tips are pretty good, so it's alright.

Krissy does have a dog. A giant German Shepherd with no left ear, a scarred muzzle and a bit of trust issue. Juliet doesn't seem to allow anyone to get close to her, with Krissy and Claire as the exceptions, though lately the dog has been following him as well. Like now.

Right now, the canine's sitting right in front of his feet, tongue lolling out as she stares at _his_ cup of coffee.

"You know I don't share anything with anyone, Julie," he says, "You're not even my dog. I don't have to feed you. Haven't those two girls spoil you enough?” The dog whines, nudging his leg with her muzzle. She seems unabashed by his judgmental words, which would've amused him, if not for her constant hunger.

It's just half an hour past the usual morning rush, so luckily enough, no one had to witness Dean talking with a dog. Benny's in the kitchen finishing up the last orders, thus leaving him alone with the mutt, alone and isolated in his usual seat at the far back. Benny allows him to take an early break; while he doesn't really want to be treated as a helpless cripple, he does appreciate Benny's insistence at that.

Surprisingly, a sweet lady approaches his table. The brunette introduces herself as Eileen and she gives him a friendly smile.

“I hope it’s your lucky day, ’cause we’re almost out of today’s breakfast special.” She speaks weirdly, he notes, but it's still nice to hear such a cheery voice, “Either it’s just that good, or everyone didn’t bother reading the menu.”

“I hope it’s bacon,” he mouths to himself as he picked up the menu.

“Pancakes, actually, but it’s pancakes, right? Who doesn’t love pancakes?”

Dean turns his attention back to her. He didn't say that out loud, did he? Nobody would be that good at reading lips unless it’s a necessity. Gently, he taps his own ear and raises his eyebrow.

She lets out a sigh and nods.

So, she's deaf. Not a problem. He had lots of deaf friends (mostly from IED. _Fucking IEDs, he hated them with a passion. Those things took- **STOP.**_ ), Dean can consider himself quite fluent at signing. Just the basic words, but that still counts, right? He can hold a conversation on his own, he just can't have something as deep and meaningful as a chick-flick moment (to be honest, he can't even handle that with audible words, it's a public secret).

 _I’m a bit rusty,_ he signs, earning her surprised look _, but I hope it can still help you. I’ll take the pancakes. More coffee, black, no cream._

_And bacon?_

_Yes, please._

"Would you mind if I bring some ham for your little friend here?"

"She's not my dog," Dean explains. She chuckles, shoving her notes into her apron as she crouches in front of Juliet. The mutt doesn't growl, though she does turn her head away.

“Of course. Everyone knows that,” Eileen replies, "She's the Chambers' family 'guard dog'. Lee brought her back from the warzone and this girl's been staying at the motel. I'm surprised she's willing to sit this close to you; even Krissy has a hard time feeding her after her father died."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Don't complain; it's a great honor if Juliet's willing to trust you that easily. Anyways, I'll get your orders started. You're not in a hurry, are you?"

He shakes his head.

“Great. See you in five!”

Five minutes felt so short. Or, maybe it was just fifteen seconds, because Eileen returns with a surprised look on her face, slamming her hands on the table right in front of him.

"You're Michael? The new waiter? Why didn't you tell me?!"

Dean shrugs. "You didn't ask?"

"Oh, come on!" she pouts, "If we're gonna deal with each other every day, you should be a little more open! Being quiet and all doesn't bring good tips, you know?"

"I'm doing alright so far?"

She smirks; Eileen freaking _smirks_ at him. "Well, I wasn't here. Now they're gonna pick the better staff, don't you agree?"

Right. This is starting to feel like a bad idea.

* * *

Eileen always arrives before he does. She grins at him and gives him a cheery 'good morning' every single day, even with puffy red eyes after her daily video calls in the backroom. Her fingers move too quickly, it's hard for him to understand what she said, but it's her private business. He never tries to (watch) listen in on purpose.

In summary, he's okay with his job. He's okay with his co-worker. As for his boss... from day one, Benny's bacon cheeseburgers earns him an automatic okay in his book. Krissy and Claire are actually fun, too; their occasional snark and sarcasm keep the conversations interesting. They're also pretty good at poker.

Overall, he quite enjoys his new life. It's a little strange to find himself living in a motel room again (and Baby's long gone, no surprise), but Krissy gives him a half-price and he always gets free breakfast. All she asks is for him to smuggle beers to her room (and his coffee. Everyone likes his coffee). Missouri doesn't seem to completely agree with it, but she doesn't complain, either. He still gets along well with Garth and Pamela, the diurnal and nocturnal receptionists.

"Michael, I'm going home now, okay?" Eileen asks, handing him the front door’s key. Dean nods his head, signing a simple  _‘be careful’_  as his reply. She smiles and pats his back in gratitude.

“You say that all the time,” she points out, “I mean, thanks for worrying, but I’m sure nothing will happen. I’ll be fine.”

He shrugs. “You never know.”

She lets out a small laugh as she walks towards the exit. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mike.” He doesn’t say another word, though he manages to give her a smile in return. Since Benny has already gone home, Dean finds himself sitting back in front of the counter, pulling out a box of cigarettes while he stares at the empty bar.

His first plan was to stay for one night and leave the city first thing in the morning, but now he has gotten attached. Too many hints of affection from everyone he knows, which is definitely new territory. He’s used to harsh words and violence, never gentle touches and heart-to-heart moments. Even his family raised him with that principle: being soft is a weakness, the weak dies and the strong survives.

Perhaps people would call him cruel. But being cruel was a necessity, and now? Nobody expects him to be strong. Everyone treats him as a human, not a weapon, not a soldier. Not, as Ruby said, a puppet made to be broken. He is now allowed to feel, to be vulnerable, he doesn’t have any other rules or orders to follow.

His freedom doesn’t taste as sweet as it’s supposed to be, though.

_Dean should be—_

_God, he should stop before he drowns in his own head._

He shoves the cigarette back in his pocket. _Not today,_ he thinks, _I can last longer than that._

The key is cold against his fingers, but he keeps it in his hand, clutching it tight until his knuckles turn white. Walking back to the motel feels colder when he’s on his own, but it’s almost Thanksgiving, and dwelling on that thought will only make it worse.

_He spent his last Thanksgiving with his team, sharing the snacks and canned foods their wives sent to them. Adam received a book of poems from his mother and all of them reads at least one each._

_Dean was the only one who received no packages._

**_For fuck’s sake, Dean, stop!_ **

“I’m not sure if you notice,” a voice says, “but your thoughts drift away all the time. It can be dangerous, you know? Like now. We’re both standing in the middle of the road because I’m afraid you might get hit by a truck or something.”

Aw, damn it. “Words are prayers, Krissy.”

“My point still stands.” The girl, as she said, is standing right next to him in the middle of the empty road. One of her hand is holding a leash, which connects to the ring on Juliet’s collar, while her other hand is resting on her hip. As always, the dog lets out a quiet growl in greeting, which brings him down to his knees as he pets her head, carefully avoiding the spot where her left ear once was. Juliet nudges his leg with her muzzle and he complies, walking back to the sidewalk with Krissy and her smirk behind him.

“Your shift ended two hours ago.” She hands him the leash, which he takes without a comment, “Where have you been?

“You’re worried about me? I’m honored, really.”

“You wish.” She crosses her arms, “Missouri already reserved a seat for you in our Thanksgiving dinner. It would be a waste if you don’t come because you break your bones with your stupidity.”

Krissy sucks at lying. But Dean’s fine with that.

“Well, if it’s free food, I’m in.”

They still want him, and that’s all he needed.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill! Kudos? Comments? Whatever you do, thanks for reading!


	5. Thanksgiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. I had exams for like, a month (with my caffeine intake, I'm surprised I'm still coherent enough for this). 
> 
> Anyways, I wouldn't even be surprised if you forgot the previous plot (I kinda did, too), so in summary, Dean now has a job at Benny's diner and Krissy invites him to thanksgiving dinner.
> 
> Now, drama ensues.

Krissy spends most of her life in the Chambers' Motel. It was owned by her father, who married her mother not long before he was deployed, leaving the building in her care. Turned out that his wife's pregnant; she gave birth to a daughter who didn't meet her father until she was two. Her dad loved Krissy more than anything, but saving the world was still his duty. He didn't quit being a soldier, much to his wife's dismay. It only made Krissy look up to him more.

Her mother cried a lot. Krissy didn't understand for a long time. Her dad's a hero, so what? It's okay if he leaves; he always comes back. He kisses her cheek and tickles her tummy; he gives her hugs and takes her out for ice cream. They had a date at a Build-A-Bear; the white bunny in marine uniform sings Simple Man whenever she hugs it.

Her father is always kind to her. But each time he comes home, he gets weirder. He makes scared noises in his sleep, he gets jumpy. Sometimes he cries, and mom would hug him, but it doesn't help. On a bad day, he would hug her tight as if it will be the last time he'll ever do that. Krissy always asks if he's okay, but he always lies and says yes. He lies a lot about how he feels, but at least Krissy could still help him. Krissy made him pancakes. Krissy showed him the story she wrote for school, the one about superheroes. Dad said she made him feel much much better, and that's enough.

He brings a dog home. Her name's Juliet; she has one ear and she doesn't like hugs. Juliet always sleeps at the bottom of Krissy's bed and she growls at any strangers that comes close to her.  Unlike any other puppies who licks or nibbles, she barks and bites. But she's nice. Juliet's a good friend.

Then one day, her father leaves again. This time Mom tried to stop him, but he didn't listen. He never comes back. His friend did, with a strange necklace on his hand. Mom cried for days.

Krissy never saw her father again. Only a closed casket.

Mom stopped crying, then she stopped talking. Soon she stopped cooking. Krissy had to clean the house and take care of the motel. Missouri visits almost every day. She cooks dinner and helps Krissy with her homework. Mom didn't get better. She got ill and she had to drink pills to help her feel less sad.

She stopped being ill when she's dead. Krissy found her in the master bedroom, hanging from the ceiling.

Krissy was 12.

So if anyone dares tell her _'you're just a kid'_ or anything like that, they'll get a broken nose, if not more.

* * *

Thanksgiving dinner is much more delicious than the past 5 years. Turns out, Michael makes amazing pies, as long as no one disturbs him in the kitchen. Pam, Claire and Krissy finish it before the main course (Missouri didn't even complain) and he had to bake another.

Frank doesn't show up; he never does, that paranoid bastard. He doesn't even leave his room, no one would expect him to walk to Missouri's house for a single dinner. He takes left-overs, but that's just it. For a guy who's been living in the motel for a year, he's not as sociable as he should be.

Anyways. Mike joins the girls' conversation so easily, like he really belongs with them. Kinda strange, but it was nice to hear such absurd stories from a mysterious guy like him. As soon as he finished his food, he started a tale about his first adventures in the kitchen.

"Wait, seriously? Mac-and-cheese with marshmallows? That's what you feed to your little brother?!"

"He calls it exotic, who am I to judge?"

"That's just disgusting!"

"Hey, that earns you one less pie, Claire."

Claire scrunches up her nose. "With your appetite, I don't think I'll get more than a slice."

"That's it. No pie for you."

The blonde was about to retort when Back in Black suddenly plays in the background, distracting them from their banter. Michael fumbles with his pockets until he pulls out an old phone, glaring at the screen almost as soon as he reads it. "I gotta take this," he says, asking permission to leave the room. Missouri gives him a nod and he walks out of the door, ignoring Pam's confused gaze on his back.

"Hello?"

 _"Winchester!"_ the voice greets through the phone, too cheerful to his liking, _"I thought you would never pick up!"_

With everything that has happened, it's clear that Dean's supposed to be dead long ago. But he's not, and everyone believes that there must be some kind of holy entity watching over him. Who might it be? Well, angels aren't real, and there's no such thing as a guardian demon.

Demons make deals. Like Ruby. Like Meg.

"What do you want this time? I told you I don't want to hear from you again."

 _"Ah, no foreplay, then. Fine by me."_ There's a dramatic pause before Meg starts talking again. _"Remember that jewel from before? Turns out that it's not gone, just a little... lost."_

Oh. Ruby. Just fucking great.

"And?"

 _"Here's the thing, Dean: our deal was for you to destroy all of them. That includes her. Have you forgotten?"_ At the moment Meg is probably drinking wine in a hotel room right across Eiffel Tower. Another scenario, she might be standing in front of an awfully rich guy, skinning him alive as she waits for him to agree to give her half his fortune. There's no in-between. _"Either way, she wants revenge. I can help you deal with her, or I can let her ruin you. Again."_

Dean can definitely imagine her as a demon in an alternate universe. Her negotiation skill is effective, but it's often... twisted. And as much as he hates her, she's not wrong. He needs her help to beat Ruby.

"Alright. What do you want me to do?"

_"Nothing, yet. Just keep an eye out. I'll tell you once the package's heading your way, but well, I might lose it again. Whatever you do, you still have to get it. Understand?"_

Dean huffs. "Yeah, yeah. Can I hang up now?"

 _"Rude,"_ she says, but the call ends instantly. Dean almost throws the phone to the open road, but luckily enough his logic stops him, and he switches on the silent mode before returning to the dining room.

He finds Claire and Krissy already sprawled out on the couch, watching Captain America while making up their own live running commentary. Missouri's sitting in the armchair, knitting something... rainbow? Well, it still looks much more bearable than Pamela's magazine— clearly NSFW, that's for sure.

_Okay, stop. Judging people is not cool, man._

What's troubling him is his instincts, telling him that he doesn't belong here. Adding more to his doubts, to the list of _'Bullshit Reasons of Why Dean Winchester Will Never Be Happy'_ , as Adam used to call it.

This place, these women just looks so... content. Safe. Happy. It's so domestic, unlike anything Dean has ever had before. And he doesn't want to ruin any of it, especially with Ruby being alive. That woman will hunt Dean down; everyone knows she always gets what she wants, especially revenge. Dean had destroyed everything she had, obviously she won't let that go.

His instincts are also telling him to leave right now, but it's hard to do so. Because Krissy's grinning like a child in Christmas, gesturing for Dean to join them in the living room. Because Claire's giving her such a familiar glare, as if threatening him to do as her girlfriend wishes. Because for the first time ever, Juliet relaxes completely, sleeping in front of the TV with her ear down. Because Missouri has warmed up to him, finally, as she no longer looks at him like she's waiting for him to explode. Because Pam's giving her a wink, hiding half her face behind the magazine, showing him the half-naked man on the cover on purpose.

Because they just accepted him in their home. Him, this broken shell of a good man that he used to be.

He doesn't deserve that.

He doesn't fucking deserve that.

Adam does, and Dean's supposed to be the one six-feet-underground.

He doesn't deserve to act like he has a fucking place to call home.

Because he doesn't belong here, but they make him feel like he does. Because everything here just screams 'family' and Dean had forgotten what it means.

He should leave. He really should leave, before he got too attached. _Or is it too late?_

"Michael?"

_He shouldn't stay. Everyone around him either gets hurt, dies, or worse_

"Mikey? Hey, where are you going?"

_He's poison. Always has been._

"Back to my room. Something came up," he automatically replies, grabbing his scarf.

Krissy frowns at him. "Can't it wait? It's Thanksgiving, dude."

Dean almost flinches, almost. "Nah, it's urgent. I need to go to the motel. But thank you for the food, Missouri. You're a great cook."

"We enjoyed your pie the most, Michael. We're the ones thanking you here."

"Do you need someone to drive you back to the motel?" Pamela asks.

He shakes his head, "I'll just walk. Wanna clear my head, that phone call kinda ruins my mood. I'll see you guys in the morning, alright?"

"Sure. Take care, darling."

Walking doesn't clear his head, it only makes everything blurry. By the time Dean arrives back to the motel, his head is pounding, his leg aches and his hands are shaking. He can barely unlock his door before he stumbles inside his room and into his bed. Too tired to take off his prosthetic, he only sits at the edge of the mattress and tries to regain his calm.

With his luck, it doesn't work at all.

* * *

 _There's something in his eyes,_ Krissy notices, _something deep and dangerous, just like what her father once had._

She may not be the smartest among her peers, but she's not dumb. Oh, no, she's totally far from that. She has seen twice more than her own share of trauma. Or terror, or both, or whatever else you would call it. That kind of shit wounds you, they'll scar you for life. It won't heal. It just can't. 

And Michael has this exact problem. More than anyone else, she notices this one particular detail since day one.

There's something in Michael's eyes. Something dark and suffocating, something that just screams hurt and hatred and regret, both threat and desperation.

War, most likely.

It hits a little too close to home.

Dinner had gone just fine; Pam didn't say anything inappropriate, Missouri seemed friendly enough towards Michael, Juliet didn't look as tense as usual and Claire's comments were all positive. But then Michael got a phone call, and he came back all stiff and wary, saying that he should go, and he did.

His mind wasn't fully there anymore.

Juliet whines and Krissy allows that dog to leave the house. Everyone's worried, but Mike will get mad if he knows they ended everything just for him. Missouri insisted to 'give the guy some space'. Pam agreed, Claire didn't. They all still finished the movie before going home. Claire didn't protest when Krissy refused to drop by her house; instead, she decided to tag along, back to the motel.

So that's how Krissy finds herself standing in front of Michael's room. Juliet is scratching at the door, still whining and barking. Claire is leaning on the wall, frowning at the discarded scarf on the floor

It's kinda funny, Krissy thinks; first her dad, then her mom, then Benny. Next was Claire, then much much later was Frank, and last month was Michael. The motel just seems to be some kind of a... checkpoint or something, for broken people. Though some of them fail to survive, the point still stands. It's supposed to be a motel, where people come and go all the time, no strings attached. How come everyone brings their baggage here?

No, she's not complaining, just wondering.

God knows she has her own issues. Adding her childhood to the list, clearly there's a lot of stories hidden behind the motel walls. Nobody speaks of it, nobody asks, everyone knows not to pull that thread. Nobody wants to risk unraveling the secrets. Everyone seems to think that the building had witnessed just the same tragedy as whatever you might find in a hospital. The kind of tale that takes you to a cemetery, cold and dark and lonely, wrapped in a veil from the underworld.

And Michael...

He looks like he's the one who's the most aware of it. He doesn't seem to care about it. From day one, Michael notices the blood on the edge of the door before they even entered the building. He didn't bat an eye when he first saw Juliet, fangs bared and an ear short. Michael didn't flinch when Krissy had to staple his stab wound. He drinks his beers like it was water. He...

He reminds her of her father.

It is wrong, terribly so, to compare her father to this stranger. Michael Remington (weird-ass name) is nothing like Lee Chambers. Her dad was much kinder, much softer, much less of a ticking timebomb ready to explode.

Michael is... dangerous. His punches made him look like he's possessed, he sleeps with a gun under his pillows and he always has at least two kinds of weapons on him and within an arm's reach. He did all of that on purpose, too—okay, maybe not those powerful fists, but it would've taken decades of training.

Krissy's not supposed to be worried about him.

Michael's an outsider, he hides his secrets well and he always manages to change the topic whenever anyone tries to pry about his family. Maybe he's not even using his real name. He's a bit inhuman in terms of strength, Eileen says sometimes it seems like he's incapable of feeling pain.

Krissy shouldn't be worried about him, but she is. She can't just _not_ , because that guy's more than what he said he's worth. He got himself stabbed the first time they met, just because he doesn't like to see a lady getting harassed. Even when she insisted that she didn't need his help, he only laughed it off.

_"I know, you could've dealt with that yourself," he said, "But I think you really shouldn't have to."_

So now, maybe Krissy can finally return the favor.

"You sure we can go in?" Claire asks her, "Is he even awake? He's not answering."

But the door's not locked, and Michael is careful. So careful, he wouldn't have left his key on the door.

Something's wrong. Terribly, completely so, and that's just...

It just brings bad memories.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't have a beta, so all mistakes are mine (where do you find a beta, btw?)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are loved and welcomed!


	6. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krissy's decisions aren't always wise...

Drowning isn’t always painful. It doesn’t always hurt, sometimes it pulls you away from reality, and as mind-numbing as it is, that feeling (or the lack of it) often soothes you.

John Winchester used to drown in his misery. Losing his wife, the fear of his new responsibility as a single father, those things made him turn to alcohol instead of his family, who eventually abandons him. He used to drown those feelings with beers and slurs of hatred, but now he weeps. He weeps for the family he should’ve treasured, for his wasted life, and especially for his sons, one dead and the other hollow.

Sam Winchester is still drowning in his anger. Towards his mother, who left the world as her husband fell apart in her memory. Towards his father, who neglected him and forced his brother to raise them both on his own. Towards his brother, who disappeared without a single goodbye, only returning as a title, a gravestone and an empty casket. Towards himself, who pushes away everyone who tries to save him, because if no one helped him before, why would they start now?

They won’t. That’s how Dean Winchester drowns in his regrets.

But again, drowning doesn’t always hurt. He can’t feel a thing right now; not physically, though he’s faintly aware of his surroundings. His mind may be a little detached, but it’s still fairly easy to tell that he’s no longer alone inside the room.

It makes him wary—the realization that he still can’t move his fingers, let alone _run_ , while this stranger is entering his room (his territory!). He can’t defend himself. They’re gonna do it all over again, please let it be Ruby, anyone. Anyone but Alastair.

Something almost touches his shoulder. He dodges, barely, and now that he finds his limbs working, Dean pushes himself farther away from the edge of the bed. It won’t do much, it won’t save him, but it can spare him a few more seconds to escape.

Wait, why does he even bother?

Dean closes his eyes. Yeah, that’s a good question. It's not like anyone knows where he is. How far would he make it on his own? Wouldn’t it be better to let them what they want? It will end quicker if he cooperates.

The stranger approaches him again, and this time, he only closes his eyes. It’s so quiet, so cold, and somehow it barely bothers him anymore.

It takes forever. He can’t hear anything, he doesn’t open his eyes until he feels it. There’s a hand on his lap, gently shaking him and asking him questions. The voice is muffled, but it’s definitely a girl. Krissy, his memory supplies. Right. That kid has a habit of breaking into his room.

He should be angry, but he’s not.

Dean still can’t bring himself to relax, but hey, looks like his senses are starting to work properly again. He tries to lift his head, yet it just feels so heavy. He can’t move. He can’t even panic about that.

Suddenly he finds Krissy’s face in front of him. She’s mouthing, saying, asking something, and as the fog around his head cleared, he finally manages to process her words.

“…—in your room. You’re safe. Just listen to my voice, okay? Yeah, that’s it. Take a deep breath, man. Yup, just like that…”

Dean blinks and jerks away from her touch.

“Hey, calm down, Mikey. You good?” Krissy asks, voice laced with worry. She holds a glass of water in front of his lips, “Come on, drink up. You did lots of sweating and all, you must be thirsty.”

 _Thanks,_ he signs, unconsciously, but luckily Krissy understands him. From Eileen, perhaps? Doesn’t matter.

The water tastes like metal—not blood, he tells himself—so he really should fix the plumbing. That would be fun. More job means more distractions.

“Dude, don’t space out on me.” Dean turns to look at the teen, who frowns at him, “What happened, Mike?”

He shakes his head.

“Fine, you don't have to tell me. But at least talk to someone, okay? This shit will get out of hand the longer you keep it to yourself, no offense." Dean rolls his eyes at her. It hurts his head, and she clearly notices, but thankfully she doesn't comment. "You should sleep. Good night, Mike.”

"Night.”

* * *

 

Dad says sorry almost every time he sees Sam.

Sometimes, Sam believes it.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. It’s more like a Pavlovian response. Why believe in words that mean nothing? When they were young, Dad would stumble into whatever shitty motel they’re currently staying in. He always has a bottle in his hand, his wallet’s mostly empty, and Dean would be the one who dragged him to the couch. Dad wouldn’t say a thing except for that one particular word. They don’t even know what he’s apologizing for.

The alcohol? The call from the bar? The cash disappearing from Dean’s savings? The empty kitchen? There’s a lot of things Sam can blame him for—that’s what he did all the time. Yet, Dean’s response never varies.

_“It’s okay, Dad. Just sleep.”_

That’s kinda a lie, isn’t it? Nothing’s ever okay. In the morning, Dad would yell at Dean for all the things he should’ve taken credit for himself. Dean never fights back.

Did he really accept all of that?

Sam would never know now, the guy’s gone. Dad’s on his deathbed, too; liver failure, which he (finally) admits is his own fault. He’s asleep for most of the day, though whenever he’s awake… he’s a good father. Good enough, at least, since Sam isn’t so sure about the standard. Sam suppose that’s what he would’ve been throughout their childhood, had Mary been alive. That might be the father that Dean remembers, the one that pushes Dean to be the pillar of the Winchester family for as long as they live together.

Dad would ask about his job. He listens patiently about Sam’s cases, his clients, he barely bats an eye when Charlie mentions her girlfriend. Dad spoke about Mary when Sam told him his plan to propose to his girlfriend. He gave his blessings.

Are those enough good points to make Sam forgive him for today?

For today, when John admits his awareness of Dean’s enlistment, long before Sam even realize that Dean’s gone?

* * *

 

The next morning, Krissy barely acknowledges him as he enters the kitchen. Neither Missouri nor Pamela is present, for which Dean is grateful.

“Dude, isn’t it too early to get yourself drunk?”

Dean blinks in surprise, and until Krissy points at his hand, he didn’t notice himself reaching towards Pam’s six-packs supply. Krissy shakes her head in amusement and motions towards the coffee maker. “Caffeine should work better at this hour.”

“Right,” he mumbles. The girl goes back to her cereal, but this time she chews obnoxiously loudly, giving him a pointed stare every time he looks at her. It should disgust him, but he knows he has no right to judge.

As soon as the coffee’s done, Dean takes his seat across her. “You’re annoying, you know?” She is. She really is. She reminds him of Gabriel, who always put his feet on the table whenever he drops Castiel off at the Winchester’s, almost every damn morning, for like a decade or more. Krissy reminds him of himself, who would turn off the Wi-Fi whenever Charlie starts reading gay porn fanfictions on his laptop.

Krissy’s so fucking annoying.

“I know,” she replies, “It’s part of my charm. Don’t be so jealous.”

“Brat.”

“Better than a grumpy old man like you.” She carelessly places her empty bowl in the sink and turns to him. “Any plans for today?”

“Aside from going back to bed? No.”

“I need you to fix the vent in Frank’s room. The guy’s been complaining about it since last week, he’s spamming my inbox.”

… What…? Who the hell is Frank? And what inbox?

Five minutes later, Dean finds himself walking down the motel’s corridor, followed by the big mutt who’s been wagging her tail like a puppy. Dean appreciates her enthusiasm, it’s almost enough to motivate him. Almost.

“The guy’s okay, I guess, but he has his issues, like you,” Krissy warns. The last comment earns her a small glare from Dean, but she ignores it easily, “He has this… obsession. Paranoia, I don’t know. He changes his room every two weeks, he says he doesn’t want people to find him, it doesn’t make sense but don’t argue with him, he’ll get more annoying. The old guy won’t bother you much as long as you don’t disturb him.” Dean scrunches up his nose, already feeling skeptical, though Krissy is having none of it.

“Just hurry it up, Mike.”

“Stop calling me that.”

She sticks her tongue out and knocks on the door. “Frank? You busy?”

“I’m always busy, young lady,” a voice replies from the inside, “What do you want? I’ve paid my rent for this month, why-”

“Do you want the vent fixed or not?”

There’s some faint cursing, then the door is opened. Krissy immediately pushes him into the room and with a wink, she runs off, giving him a mock salute. Dean can barely react; the state of the room is way too… freaky? He doesn’t exactly have a word for it.

The lights are off, and there are dozens of cardboard boxes filled with many kinds of electronics. There are 3 different laptops on the table and another on the nightstand, all with the screen displaying some kind of codes he doesn’t understand.

“What are you looking at? Get on with your job,” the short, old guy snaps at him. Dean frowns.

“I need to turn on the lights.”

“Why don’t you?”

Rolling his eyes, Dean reaches for the light switch and flicks it on. Now that he can see Frank’s face, he kinda feels like he had seen the old guy somewhere. In a photograph, maybe. Or whatever.

Frankly (Dean grimaces at his own bad pun), the guy seems just as surprised as he is. He takes off his glasses, then puts them on again, then squints at him.

“Wait, I know you…” he mutters, “How can you be here? No, why are you here?” his tone rises, higher and louder, “You’re not supposed to be here! How did you find me? I’m not even involved with them, not anymore! I didn’t do anything wrong! I swear it wasn’t me!”

_What the fuck._

* * *

 

Dean stomps towards the motel’s office and slams the door open. As expected, he finds Krissy sitting in front of the desk, reading a book, brows furrowed. She glances at him and gives him a curious look.

“Did you do that on purpose?” he demands instead.

He doesn’t want to start a fight in such a peaceful weekend, but really, the girl started it. She’s a sly little fox; clearly she didn’t just give him that job out of the blue. The vent’s been broken for weeks; why would she tell him just now? Besides, she usually never bothers him on his day off.

Krissy isn’t being cooperative either, which makes things even more suspicious. She merely frowns at his question, giving him a dismissing “What?” as she flips another page of that thick novel on her lap.

“Did you take me to meet Frank on purpose?”

_Dean has definitely seen that look before: shock, terror, anticipation, those are what he always wants his enemies to feel. He had gone through continuous torture for God knows how long; inflicting emotional distress isn’t enough revenge, but at least it’s satisfying._

_He recognizes the old guy a few seconds after the freak-out started. Ruby’s informant; that bitch had mentioned the last name several times. An annoying hacker who, at least, can dig up even the tiniest dirt Azazel wants, until he ran away. Alastair accidentally murdered the family, their only card against him._

_Nobody blames the sadist. Apparently, the guy’s kinda mouthy._

_Ruby makes him sound like a bad guy, and yet Frank seems genuinely guilty. It takes him a while to calm down, and Dean uses that brief moment to repress his anger._

_Control is the one thing he can’t afford to lose, especially not in rage._

_Now they’re both quiet, sitting on opposite sides of the room, waiting for each other to start talking first. It’s not that he doesn’t know what to say; Dean just can’t decide where to start. He knows a little about why Azazel chose him, but what exactly happened, that’s what he’s looking for._

_Moreover, he has his own paranoia. He’s worried about his brother. Had they ever done anything to Sam? Is he safe? What about his Dad? That abusive son-of-a-bitch is still his father, no matter how many times he picks the bottle over his children._

_The guy seems just as conflicted as he is, but in the silence, Dean wins._

_“My name is Frank Devereaux.”_

_“I know.” Dean, with his arms crossed, doesn’t let his stern glare falter. “You may have written my files, but I’ve memorised yours.”_

_“So you understand why I did all of that?”_

_The scarred man frowns, “You stalked my family for decades. Under orders, or threats, I’m sure, but you’ve started even before my Mom married my Dad. I can’t let it go that easily.” He huffs, shaking his head, “But I’m getting there. That should be enough for you.”_

_“It is. Mr Winchester—”_

_Dean raises his hand. “Please, don’t call me that. He’s dead already. My name’s Michael.”_

_Frank nods his head, though there’s still a hint of fear in his expression. “… They call you ‘Knight of Hell’. Did you really kill all of them?”_

_“Does it matter?”_

“What are you talking about?” she asks back, “I need you to fix his vent. Is it done?”

This, this is just unacceptable. How freaking dare she?! “I know a liar when I see one, Krissy—” She slams her book shut and returns his glare with her own.

“It takes one to know one, huh?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments feed my soul.  
> Thank you for reading!


	7. Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Krissy fights. An unexpected chick-flick moment. A new stranger arrives!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst ahead. The scene leaves me a bit of a mess after I wrote it. I hope you like it!

“I know a liar when I see one, Krissy—”

“It takes one to know one, huh?” she retorts, her glare sharp, “Now before you start your bullshit about privacy, let me tell you something: the vent does need fixing, and I honestly don’t give a single fuck about your ‘tragic backstory’ or whatever the hell you call it. But Frank can find anything about anyone, and he will look you up, just to ease his own paranoia. That guy won’t tell anyone anything. Unless you might bring some kind of danger, then—”

“That guy already knows EVERYTHING about me!” Dean slams his hand onto the desk, “If you don’t trust me, I can leave. Just say the word, Krissy. You don’t have to dig into my damn records.”

Krissy bites her bottom lip, clearly nervous. “It’s not like that. I just—" she sighs, “I had to make sure. I don’t care whose blood do you have on your hands, but I know it’s there. I know you’re hiding something dark. What I need to know is, is it just bad for you, or will it affect us too?” Dean drops his hand, “It looks like the former, so I’m—”

“Don’t—”

“No, hear me out,” she insists, “My dad was in the Army. On his bad nights, he acts just like you. But you’re worse, Michael. And last night, you’re just— I’m just worried, okay? You were in pain, you weren’t responding to your name. You flinched every time I tried to touch you.” At this point, her eyes start to glisten. Dean doesn’t want to put a name on it. “That scares me. I know I shouldn’t pry, I’m sorry, Michael—”

“It’s Dean,” he corrects her, despite every fiber of his being telling him not to. Only Meg knows his real name. Then again, Meg isn’t that trustworthy. Krissy is a much better person, at least she has respect. “My name’s not Michael. It’s Dean Winchester.”

Krissy pauses, surprised. Almost said another word, but she stops herself to look at him. He tries to keep his poker face, but he's not sure if he’s doing a good job at it.

“… Does that mean I’m forgiven?” she finally asks. Her voice is tinged with both hope and caution, and of course Dean just can’t say no. He’s a sucker for kids.

Rolling his eyes, he gives her a slight nod. “No chick-flick moments. Just don’t do it again. Don’t make me take it back, kid.”

She grins, wiping her tears away, “Alright, I get it. I’ll just ask you next time.”

The brat’s way too nosy for her own good, but perhaps that’s fine. She cares, right? “Sure, but I can’t promise I’ll tell you everything.”

“Thanks, Dean.”

_Maybe he can share what happened. Adam needs to be remembered properly._

“Don’t get used to it. I’m still Michael Remington here.”

_If the secret’s bound to be out (because you can’t hide anything forever), then he’d rather have it on his own terms._

“Eh, Winchester still suits you better.”

_Surely it won’t be that hard._

“Shut up, Chambers.”

_Right?_

* * *

Dean realizes that he has a burning hatred towards buses. Maybe even more than vegetarian burgers. He hates small, scratchy seats, he hates the crowd and the noises, but most of all, he hates the lack of privacy.

When he entered the bus, people were already staring. Some kids grew curious upon seeing Juliet, but most pitied him with his crutches. Juliet growled at anyone who dared to linger their gaze on him for more than a few seconds, even after Dean closes his eyes.

He won’t be able to sleep once he did this, so he’s gonna rest while he still can.

_“Winchester!” a gruff voice called. He slid himself out from under the jeep; seeing Adam, he gave him a curt nod greeting and went back to his work._

_“My mom sent you another book,” Adam started, holding a small package wrapped in brown paper, “You read classics?”_

_“I read anything I can get my hands on,” he replied, “Give my thanks to your mother.”_

_“Sure.” The younger man sat on the ground, “We’re going home in four months. Can you believe it?”_

_“Honestly? I’d rather be here.”_

_"You’re kidding me. Don’t you have anyone waiting back home?"_

_Dean shook his head. “Nope. They’re dead,” an easy lie, “I grew up with loaded guns; this is all I ever know. Besides, I like helping people.”_

_For a minute, Adam was silent. “When we got back, you definitely have to meet my Mom.”_

_“Of course. I’d like to.”_

_The first time he saw her, Mrs. Milligan was talking to his son’s gravestone._

“I’m sorry, may I sit here?”

He jerks awake but calms down soon enough. Nodding numbly, he focuses on his breathing, not caring about anything or anyone around him. Faintly, he can hear Juliet’s slight whimper, but he shushes her mindlessly.

_The man shook his head. “No one chooses warzone over normal life, Dean.”_

_“Says the one who had served since I was 5.”_

_“Watch it. You’re not angry at me, you’re angry at yourself.”_

_He tore his gaze away from his senior’s glare. “Shut up, Bobby.”_

_“No. You’re still bitter about leaving them? It’s been over a decade, sooner or later they’re gonna find you. And what would they do, seeing you like this? Wouldn’t you rather be the one who finds them?”_

_Dean’s glare sharpened, as he jerked his thumb towards the entrance. “Leave me alone.”_

_“… You’re insane, Winchester.”_

He opens his eyes again. This time, a small hand is tugging at the sleeve of his uniform. It's a toddler, sitting on her mother’s lap beside him. Dean gives the kid a small, half-hearted grin right before he sneezes; she giggles, catching her mother’s attention. ‘It’s okay,’ Dean mouths to the woman, who gives him a grateful smile.

“Are you going home, dear?”

Home?

Oh, right, the uniform.

Being such a sentimental bastard is definitely not worth it. But he can’t stop himself; his mother should see him in his best clothes at least once. It’s been too long since his last visit. Telling her the truth is the least he can do.

“Yeah,” he replies, a half-truth, “It feels… strange, finally back here.”

“I can’t even imagine. But at least you’re safe now, right?”

“I guess? I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.”

“I’m sure everything will turn up alright,” her eyes lands on the crutches and she frowns. “It’s hard, but it will get better.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

* * *

By the time he arrives at Greenville, the sun is already setting. His feet lead him to the familiar marble gates of the cemetery, set between a pair of angel statues, just as he last remembered it. Juliet sniffs curiously at the wildflowers, but she still follows him closely, farther inside the area.

Despite the cold, Dean can’t find himself to stop walking, even just to open his duffel for a pair of gloves. He grits his teeth instead, fingers turning white around his crutch, until he stumbles in front of his mother’s grave. Then he freezes, and swallows the lump in his throat.

What is he supposed to say? ‘Hey mom, it’s been a while. Sorry for disappearing off the grid like that. As you probably have heard from Sam, I’m dead. Honestly, I kinda wish I am.’

Nope.

So he sits down, sets the crutches beside him, and pulls out his travel mug for more coffee. It’s cold and way too bitter, but it’s exactly what he needed.

“I don’t know where to start, Mom,” he mutters, “but well... I think my version is better than Sam's. You know he tends to be dramatic. Remember that time with his goldfish?” he wants to laugh, to try to make it light, though his quiet chuckle came out forced.

Everything is just too heavy.

“Do you remember my last fight with Dad? The one I told you about, the last time I’m here?" The fight was terrible. His father had always treated his sons differently, but that night, Dean almost snapped. "I called him, about a month after I got deployed. He asked about Sam. Just Sam. I got mad, and... well, I guess that was childish of me, too. But the damage's done, so...“

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Juliet rests her head on his lap.

"Anyways. It was fun. There's this guy named Cole, he knows like, a dozen different ways of fighting. Kung fu, boxing, muay thai, I don't know what else, but no one beats him at wrestling. With his size, I think that's quite a record."

"Then there's Anna. She's like, a doctor there, but she's good with knives and the likes. The guys are usually too afraid to try to flirt with her. I heard she broke a guy's arm once, with only one hand. But she's usually much, much kinder than that. I like her."

"Oh, and Kevin is cool, too. He's a real nerd, kinda reminds me of Sam. He should be getting a PhD, but I heard he joined us to honor his girlfriend or something. His mom calls almost every week, she's a scary woman. Kevin's just around Adam's age, but I don't get why they couldn't get along. I think Kevin just isn't fun enough. Or Adam jokes around too much."

Dean rubs his face with his hands. Here goes his favorite part. "I killed Adam." Fuck, just saying that still hurts. "The IED exploded under our jeep, and I couldn't move. They were coming after him. Adam said he wouldn't be able to handle it, so I shot him."

"They took me. Chained me up and did so many things I wish I could forget. I'm glad Adam didn't have to go through any of it. But I still wish he's alive. I don't know what to feel, Mom. I regret killing him, but I'm also glad they took me instead. I can’t—I just don't know what to feel, it’s too much."

He really should stop here, before he says something he shouldn't.

"As you can see, I lost my leg. It's still much better than what happens here," he taps the side of his head, letting out another sigh, "and they told me to blame you."

There. He said it. Now he'll just be waiting for karma to get him, for blaming his mom on the shit he brought on to himself. That's just rotten. He's such a poison.

_Oh, and everything's about him, now? How freaking selfish. He killed Adam, he shouldn't be pitying himself._

_Maybe he's just that weak._

"They weren't lying. You started it, Mom. You never told me, or anyone else, not even Dad. I had to find out from the psycho who cuts me open for fun, how sick is that?" he mutters, more to himself. God, he needs a drink. "I should've known. They kicked you out when you were 19. There's no way you could've bought a house on your own, not in 3 years. Not even with Dad, that's just illogical.”

Dean shifts, moving his knees so they cover his chest, now growing tight with phantom pains. His throat is starting to burn, and Dean chants inwardly, over and over, _'don't cry, don't you fucking dare'._

His eyes betray him.

"How could you do that, Mom?" he asks, "We are your children. We're your family, and we had to pay your debt. Not with money. Dad paid it with his wife, Sam with his own health, and damn it, I paid it in blood! That's not fair!" With trembling fists, he tries desperately to suppress his anger, "Have you ever seen Dad? He never rests. He's always angry, and miserable, all the time. He never gets along with Sam. And Sam, I shouldn't have let him go to Stanford. He got into drugs, and the same bitch that poisons him also breaks me! **_I PAID YOUR DEBT WITH MY LIFE, MOM, HOW FAIR IS THAT?!_** "

Dean is panting now, his whole body shaking like he just saw a ghost. He hopes he did. It would make things much easier, rather than facing all these questions, trying to keep himself from lashing out and losing control, like that night with Meg.

"How could you...?"

A quiet sniffle.

"I may not be the best child, Mom, but do I really deserve that?"

Dean wipes his face with the end of his sleeves.

"I don't even remember how long they kept me chained up like an animal."

He takes several deep breaths, closing his eyes as he tries to relax.

"Sometimes I wish I had shot my own head. Not Adam's. I can't—"

He turns his head away. Juliet whines, and he runs his finger through her fur, as if telling her that he's fine. But really, who is he trying to convince?

"I can't hate you, Mom. God knows how much it hurts me, but I can't hate you. You abandoned us, you ruined all of us, but I can't even bring myself to stay mad at you."

Isn't that just fucked up? His own mother is the one who damned him, even if she didn't mean to. She started all the Hell in his life, from his father's abuse to his brother's ignorance, and eventually his own 'death'. And yet, his feelings never change.

"I still love you, Mom. And I still miss you, all the damn time."

* * *

 

Dean stays in his spot for at least another hour. His leg has grown numb from staying seated for such a long time, but it's more bearable than the constant ache in his right knee.

"Come on, Julie," he says, "It's time to go."

Dean hooks a leash on the dog's collar before he slings his bag over his chest and grabs his crutches. Juliet wags her tail as she trots away from him.

"I don't know if I'll see you again, Mom," he admits, "But if there's one thing I can ask for you, well..."

Dean kisses the tip of his fingers and places them on the top of the gravestone.

"Watch over Sam for me. If you can. And Dad too. I hope they're okay, wherever they are." He pulls his hand away and wipes his still-damp eyes.

"Goodbye, Mom."

Juliet tilts her head and barks at him. Dean walks through rows and rows of names carved in stones, mostly forgotten, buried under tall weed and dandelions. But some are well-loved, with bouquets of colorful petals in front of the 2 sets of 4-digit numbers.

The dead, are they happy? Do they even feel anything at all? Dean certainly believes in Heaven, but he's not sure if the spirits are aware of the family they left behind. Praying to his mother is mostly a habit; John Winchester clings too tight on the memory of his dead wife (and it might be the only thing his children learns from him). He was never a faithful man. Never went to a church, nor did he ever taught his sons to read the Bible.

It's only a given that Dean is far from religious. He believes that God exists, but for him, it always seems like God doesn't believe in humans. And it doesn't bother him. Celestial powers never saved him before, so he never expects anything from them.

Then again, he's technically dead. Few people knows that Dean Winchester survived the fire, Dean can count them with one hand. Half of them doesn't even realize the significance of that information.

So wherever he goes, whatever he does, it doesn't really matter now. Not when—

"Dean?"

Did someone just call his name?

Oh, God, please no. No one should find out. It’s too dangerous.

"Dean, is that you?"

He knows that voice; she would never let him go after this.

But he really can’t let her know. They’ll kill her, or she’ll kill him first. For real this time.

_**"DEAN WINCHESTER, STOP RIGHT THERE!"** _

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, surprise, surprise, turns out that Mary's grave isn't in Kansas. Canon. I feel like I've lived in a lie...
> 
> Btw, I haven't write much for the next chapter, so the next chapter will be ready in like, 2 weeks, I guess. But thank you for the comments, you really made my day!
> 
> Love you guys! Thanks for reading!
> 
> \- Raven


	8. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the stranger turns out to be...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to my alpha reader who helps me to figure out what to spill in this chapter! No trivial secrets yet, but we'll get there!

**_"DEAN WINCHESTER, STOP RIGHT THERE!”_ **

At that moment, a cold shiver trails down his spine. His instinct goes haywire, and though he almost starts running, his steps halt barely a second later. It’s Ellen, and he shouldn’t feel this scared of her, but he is. It’s Ellen, and Ellen treats him as her own son, but how can he ever face again?

It’s Ellen, and Ellen can win a fucking dart game with a fork, so he can’t possibly escape.

But he should, he has to, before she sees his face herself.

Juliet must’ve sensed his panic, because she starts barking like crazy now, growling at Ellen and nudging Dean's leg with her muzzle, as if she's telling him to leave.

He can't.

"Dean, honey, look at me," Dean doesn't know what happened, but suddenly Juliet leaps from her spot, running past him, and he just knows, he knows the dog's aiming at Ellen. He turns, throws himself forward and drops his crutches. He catches Juliet just in time, pinning her onto the ground with his own weight.

Dean's head hurts. His joints ache at the sudden movement, his leg throbs. Juliet is still struggling against his arms, trying to break herself free, still growling at Ellen's direction. Claws dig into Dean's skin, drawing blood.

Where the hell is Adam? He knows better than to unleash an MWD—

_Fuck._

"Julie, down!" Juliet snarls, and Dean glares at her, tightening his own grip, _"JULIET, CALM DOWN!"_

The german shepherd doesn't stop growling, but at least she's starting to comply. She’s still a bit tense, and Dean runs his hand through her fur, trying to soothe her nerves. "I know, Julie, I know. But no one's gonna hurt you or me, okay? I'll keep you safe. You'll be fine, we'll both be fine. Just calm down, okay?"

Juliet's growls quiet down; it turns into soft whimpers and sad whines. Dean drops his head onto the pavement, too exhausted to keep himself alert. Eyes closed, he keeps mumbling at the dog, not caring about anything else. He doesn't know how much time has passed until Juliet starts licking his cheeks.

"... Dean?"

Oh, right. Ellen.

Dean opens his eyes and slowly released his canine friend, who trots away to fetch him his crutches. He didn't even ask for it. "Good girl," he mutters, and this time, Juliet gives him a pleased bark.

Thankfully, Ellen hasn't said another thing. She waits until Dean manages to push himself back upright, not even offering her help (uncharacteristically, but very much appreciated). When he finally stands in front of her, messy and tired with a limb gone and scratches on his skin, she only gives him a small frown.

"Get in the car. There's enough space for the three of us, and you won't be running away for a second time, Dean Winchester."

He doesn't even have the energy to fight back.

 

* * *

 

She should've seen it coming.

Michael (Dean, Krissy reminds herself) had always been restless, even before Thanksgiving. It's the kind of restless where you know what you want to do, but you need more reasons anyway. The kind where you are waiting for one more push to validate your actions. Where you already have a plan, you're just not sure about when should you execute it.

It seems that despite his freak-out, the guy actually still has more secrets to hide.

Michael's room is empty, aside from his prosthetic leg on the bed. It doesn't look a den of a broke, emotionally repressed, old-and-in-denial ex-soldier, every offense intended. Krissy appreciates how he made the bed and turned off all the lights before sneaking out, but taking her dog with him doesn't give him brownie points.

At this rate, Krissy should learn not to question the veteran's decisions, no matter how absurd they can be.

It's not like Krissy's worried. Not about Juliet, and of course not about Michael.

Definitely not Michael.

"You're in denial."

"I'm not," Krissy hisses through her gritted teeth, "That guy just lives in the motel, that's all."

Claire rolls her eyes. "You get close to almost all of your tenants. Pam, Garth, Benny, even Frank."

"Half of them already moves out."

"So? My point still stands." The blonde shoves her phone in her pocket, "Everyone knows you two are pretty close. He got stabbed in his only good leg to defend your honor when you were practically strangers."

Krissy turns away.

"Even your grumpy dog likes him! Michael's actually a good guy, he's just... a bit dark, sometimes. But he always means well, so if you care about him, that's totally normal." Claire crosses her arms, "You know I've dealt with lots of shady people. Trust me on this, Michael ain't one. He's hiding something, yes, but we all have our own inner demons, right? Poetically said?"

Krissy runs her hand through her hair and lets out a defeated sigh. Though Claire seems to be making fun of her worry, this girlfriend of hers is still a good judge of character. If Claire vouches for Michael, then maybe she should also have some faith in him.

Besides, Juliet knows how to aim for his leg if he tries anything fishy.

With a small smile, Krissy digs into her jacket, pulling out a small pack of cigarette. She ignores Claire's glare as she lights one up and places it between her lips. "If you're wrong, I'll track him down and skin him alive myself."

"Sure. Just give him a few days, a week at most. He'll come back."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Well, for one, his fake leg couldn't be cheap."

 

* * *

 

"So... how have you been, Ellen?"

Stupid question, but Dean's getting sick of the silence. It makes him uneasy, even more so than the place Ellen had brought them to. An ordinary one-story house, with white-picket fence and even flowerpots by the front door. It's so not-Ellen.

The woman doesn't even look at him. She goes around the kitchen as if there's no (supposed to be) dead guy in her home, brewing coffee at such an ungodly hour. "I don't know. It couldn't be worse, I guess."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't bother," she says bitterly, but still without aggression. "You want anything to drink?"

"Can I have beer?"

"No. I need both of us sober."

Not even two minutes later, Ellen enters the living room, sitting across Dean as she places two mugs of scalding hot, sugarless coffee between them. Juliet lies under the table, still sniffing Ellen's shoes curiously.

The heat burns Dean's tongue, but he drinks it anyway, a lame attempt to avoid her gaze. She waits, scanning his battered figure head-to-toe, then looking at his crutches, and back at him.

It is quiet, still too quiet.

"I think your family deserves some explanation, Dean," she finally whispers, "but I don't think we can ask that from you. Not when—" she closes her eyes, letting out a deep exhale. "You just looked so—"

"Like a mess?"

Understatement of the century. It barely sums up everything that's wrong with him: one metal leg, an empty casket with his name on it, decades worth of daddy issues, mild addiction to alcohol, occasional feral behavior upon feeling threatened, some codependency problems with people who are either dead or, well, think he's dead. The list goes on.

At least he's aware of his problems.

Which, seriously, isn't something anyone should have to deal with. Especially his family, because Dean did all of this to himself. Following Ruby was his idea, shooting Adam was his decision, faking his own death was his choice. No one forced him to do any of it, he was just too much of a dumbass to not find any better solution.

Ellen shouldn't have to pick up his pieces.

"...What happened, honey?"

"Life. Too much shit. You don't wanna know, Ellen, trust me. It will be easier if I'm dead."

Ellen shakes her head. "I believe you have your reasons, and I won't ask, but someone has to know—"

"Promise me you won't tell anyone else. Not even Sam."

She seems a little taken aback. The silent _'why me?'_ question lingers silently between them, but finally, she gives him a small, sad smile. "You know I can't make that promise. If anyone asks me, I won't lie about it."

Dean gulps. If anyone finds out, Ruby will hunt them down just for the fun of it. Meg will break her own deal, out of fear of getting caught. Things will get messy. Bobby will have to face his superiors, getting questioned about the whole incident. The military court might, no, will be involved as well.

But it's Ellen. Ellen, who taught Dean how to take care of his baby brother. Ellen, who comforted Sam whenever he asked about Mom. Ellen, who always dealt with John's bullshit.

It's Ellen, who's been taking care of the Winchesters since Mary died.

Ellen deserves to know the truth.

"... Okay. Fair enough." He's going to regret this, definitely, "I'll tell you what you want to know, and then you can kick me out afterward."

She frowns. "Don't— don't compare me to your father, Dean. You're still one of my kids, you're always welcome here. Family doesn't end with blood, remember?"

And so, Dean weeps.

 

* * *

 

Running on two slices of pie and a pot of black coffee, both Dean and Ellen spend their morning in the kitchen, catching up with one another. Quiet words, fuzzy blankets, and warm smiles, none of it is familiar for the two, but neither plans to move from their spot for at least a couple of hours.

"I mean, unlike my high school life, at least I had lots of friends," at this, Ellen cringes, at which Dean snorts. "Oh, come on! Castiel barely counts, I knew the guy since we were six! And Charlie clung at everyone who brought any kind of Harry Potter merchandise to school."

"Wait, are you still bitter that she calls you a Hufflepuff?"

Dean scowls, giving her a _'So what if I am?'_ look. Ellen laughs, shaking her head in mild amusement. The sight reminds him of the good ol' times—aside from some strands of grey hair, Ellen doesn't change much. Her sharp gaze, her rare but genuine smiles, the crinkles on her forehead, everything is exactly as Dean remembers. "But Dean, tell me more about your friends. Anyone close? Anyone more-than-friends?"

Ellen almost doesn't catch the slight wince when Dean hears the last sentence, but he doesn't give her any chance to point it out. "I'm sure you've heard of Kevin, the one from my funeral-"

"Wait, you were there?"

"-yes, I am, and we'll get there, okay?" Ellen hesitantly nods, "Thank you. As I was saying, aside from Kevin, there's also another that I'm close with. His name's Adam. Funny guy, terrible puns, you would totally like him."

Ellen rests her arms on the table, leaning forward, as if she's listening to some important classified information (in a way, she does have to keep it secret). Why would she care so much, Dean would never understand. He certainly isn't one to look at a gift horse in the mouth.

"I met him about... a year, after I got deployed. Our last MWD handler was injured and he became the replacement. The job lasted for 3 years, give or take. Another handler came in, but my Commander wants Adam in our team. He got transferred. Rare case, and the guy deserves it. He's crazy sharp."

She takes another sip of her coffee. "What about you?" Ellen asks, "How's your job there?"

That's... not unexpected, but it isn't interesting, either.

"Me?" Dean chuckles, "You know me, Ellen. I'm not an over-achiever. I'd rather stay low. Invisible." He never joined the Marine for any 'calling' or 'right purposes' or even 'honor'. None of those poetic reasons. He needed money, he knows his way around firearms and he throws a good punch. As a bonus, he wanted some space from his family and he knew wouldn't be missed if he died.

Those aren't reasons. They're excuses, to tolerate his rash decision, the permanent damage he caused just for the sake of running away from his problems.

"I'm just a foot soldier. I carried guns, I fought the bad guys, I followed orders. It's nothing special." It really isn't. He only did the only thing he's good at—hurting people. He's poison.

"I think you should give yourself more credit. It's not as easy as it sounds, Dean. Considering how you didn't tell us about this—" Dean tenses, and Ellen glares at him, "No, Dean, don't feel guilty. It's fine, it's in the past. Don't you dare blame yourself for this. Capische?"

He raises his hands, unwilling to fight her on this. She seems pleased with his response. "Right. You've been dealing with this on your own, all you had was your friends there. Not your family back here. Most people can't go through that, and you look like you really went through Hell. I don't know what exactly happened, but you survived. That should mean something, right?"

Ain't that just tragic? By living, he only complicates things. What's dead should stay dead. What's the use of living, if he can no longer save anyone? Ellen doesn't need him. Neither does Sam, Cas, and everyone from before. If there's anyone who needs him, it's Emma, and he doesn't even know where she is.

"I wish they killed me, Ellen."

 

* * *


	9. Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellen discovers Ruby. Flashbacks of the time Dean wakes up after Meg 'rescues' him. Krissy's patience is tested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to my alpha-reader who helped me with this. I just heard about the Memorial Day thing so timezones and nationalities aside, I'm updating early. 
> 
> Btw I made a cover, it's on chapter 1. also edited the chapter a bit, though nothing important changed.

Dean feels a little guilty when Ellen cancels her dinner plan with Jo to keep him company. However, Ellen brushes it off without a second thought, claiming that she's tired of eating grease at the Roadhouse (which, apparently, is now Jo's). She urges him to cook instead, so he does.

He makes a show of his knife-handling skill, but he spills a glass of water on himself. Ellen laughs. Dean unabashedly sobs and wipes his tears as he cuts the onions, because that's the only reason why he's crying.

Ellen accepts his lie with a smirk.

She allows him to drink this time — Dean picks a red wine from her secret cabinet. "I'm a man of taste!" he exclaims as she frowns at his choice.

"You could've fooled me," is Ellen's taunting reply, and it warms his heart. For a moment, he's normal. They're acting like a normal family, almost like a mother and her son, just joking about ordinary things. She doesn't treat him any differently; he forgets that he had been hiding for almost 15 years. He forgets that he has been living under a fake name.

For a moment, life is good. All is well.

Dean tells Ellen to wait in her room. She complies. Dean rushes to the store to buy some candles and roses, but in the end, the entire kitchen gets an early Christmas decoration. He brings home fairy lights and colorful lilies.

'Bring home'. Ellen said that he'll always be welcome in her home, and now, he takes it to heart.

He cooks pasta. Pasta, because he hasn't cooked in a real kitchen for too long, so he's out of practice, and how bad can someone mess up pasta?

Pretty bad, from his experience, but this one turned out alright.

As soon as he's done, Dean washes his hands and knocks on Ellen's door. He tells her to turn around and ties a cloth over her eyes. Dean leads her to the kitchen—it's not easy with his crutch, but thankfully, she only complains about the dark.

Ellen sits in front of the table. The Beatles begins to play in the background. She smiles, amused. "What are you doing, Dean?"

"I missed so many Mother's days; let me treat you this time."

He unties the blindfold. Ellen is, to put it mildly, impressed.

She talks about Bill. About Bobby, and what he tells her about Dean. Dean finally spills bits and pieces of his 'love life', which consisted of small bars and one-night-stands. Ellen brags about her soon-to-be-official grandma status. The father disappears, but Jo wants to keep the child.

Dean begs to see the ultrasound. It brings up some bitter memories, but Dean hides it well (at least he thought he does).

Ellen doesn't ask.

The dishes are forgotten. They dance around the room. It's slow and awkward; Ellen calls it 'the best date she has had in the past five years'.

Dean beats her by another two.

But they laugh about it. When 'Hey Jude' starts, Dean sings along. Ellen records it with his phone and puts in her number. And Jo's, and Sam's, and Cas's. 

He doesn't even think of deleting them.

"I really should've brought my prosthetic," Dean mutters at one point, as he finally drops onto the couch. His leg can't take much; he hates to admit it, but he isn't a soldier anymore. Just a man fueled with spite and desperation.

"Why didn't you?" Ellen asks. She pours another glass of wine for each of them and sits next to him.

"It was supposed to be a quick visit. I was planning to return right away; my leg hurts at the time so I didn't wear it. Never thought we would meet."

Ellen doesn't reply. She leans on his shoulder and Dean lets her. It's on times like this, on fragile moments that can be broken by the slightest sound, that Dean finds it harder to hold back his feelings.

"How long will you keep this up?"

"Huh?"

Ellen turns and grabs his arm, pulling him to face her.  He raises his gaze, and there it is, the sad look he hates so much to see in her eyes. "You're leaving in a few hours. Are you going to live with them for the rest of your life? As a 'Michael Remington', until the day you die?"

Isn't fate just too cruel?

"Dean Winchester is already dead, Ellen."

"No, he isn't." She gently caresses his cheek; he has so many scars, but this is the first time he feels anxious about them. "He left, yes. But he can still come back, if only he believes it himself."

Dean pushes her hand away. "There are people looking for me, Ellen. I can't let them know about you. My war isn't over yet."

"Or you're just don't want to see your brother."

"Don't forget Cas, Charlie, Jo, and basically everyone else I knew," Dean says, "Hell, I almost ran when you first shouted at me."

"What are you even afraid of?"

"Who says I'm scared?"

Ellen snorts. "See? No need to be so defensive!" she exclaims, "I mean, you can always stay in my basement, too. Be that kind of creepy uncle everyone stays away from."

That makes no sense—oh. Ellen is giving him an out. Of course he'll take it. "Jo's gonna be that kind of overprotective mother who bites everyone's head off for touching her kid." He can totally imagine Jo carrying around half of her knife collection just for a warning.

"Like I was?"

Dean nods his head. "Like you were."

She gives him an exasperated look, but thankfully, she doesn't seem to be offended. If anything, she must be proud of her reputation.

He remembers the first time he meets her—Jo was his classmate in third grade and she stole his pencil. He chased her down to the Roadhouse. He was greeted by Ellen, who almost made him piss his pants with her glare.  And the rows of shotguns hung on the wall behind her.

It was a memorable experience.

In the end, Jo was the one getting scolded. She scowled at Dean whenever they passed each other, but a year later Dean saved their English project from utter destruction.

Jo finally claims him as her friend.

"Uh... Dean? Is this yours?"

He looks up, almost spilling his wine, and sees Ellen standing in front of the fridge. There's something shiny hanging on her fingers—

It's the dogtags.

Fuck. He must've dropped it when he raided the fridge.

"Who's Ruby Cortese?"

For fuck's sake. Why does this kind of shit always happen to him?!

"It's..." Nobody was supposed to find out about Ruby.  She's... He doesn't want her to taint any more part of his life. She already caused too much damage. "It's no one important. You can keep it."

"Are you sure? Her family might want it—"

"Her family's dead."

Ellen frowns, but she hangs the chain next to the oven mitts and goes back to his side. "Were you close friends?  Or something more?"

He almost snaps, right then and there. _Ellen doesn't know anything,_ he chants to himself, _and you'd better keep it that way._

"I guess she did know me pretty well. Maybe even more than myself."

A comforting hand squeezes his shoulder; Dean wants to melt at the touch. Maybe her affection is a little misplaced, a little biased. Maybe her reasons are wrong, maybe her intention contradicts his feeling.

Well, he doesn't have the heart to tell her the  truth.

"Sorry about your loss," she says.

_I'm not._

Everything that went wrong was just a theatrical show.  His whole life had been planned out like a play—filled  with tragedies with no happy ending.

"Thanks, Ellen."

 

* * *

 

_Dean had gone to dozens of hospitals for even more types of injuries. Mostly, he admitted himself and paid for some stitches and painkillers. He could have done it himself, but worried nurses and soothing words were often preferable._

_Throughout this record, not once did he ever wake up alone. There's always Sam, or Cas, even his own teachers several times. They always offer him (mostly) genuine words of reassurance, "get well soon" cards and flowers from his own peers._

_But that was before._

_This time, Dean wakes slowly. Dull pain pulses through his body, not enough to torture him, but it surely is uncomfortable. He opens his eyes and prepares himself for  a blinding light, but the room is dark. Empty, dead. All the blinds are closed, there's no chair inside the room, no sign of any other living being._

_It feels a little bit lonely._

_He can't move his limbs. Something binds him to the bed, but he can't even lift his head to check. His throat feels dry and it hurts, so he must be alive, but how the hell is that possible—_

_"You're awake. Good." Someone flicks on the lights, and the door clicks shut. A young woman comes into view; white coat over light blue scrubs, a pen in one hand and a clipboard in another, Dean immediately braces himself for his diagnosis._

_"How are you feeling? Like crap, I suppose?" she asks, "I'm Bela, your one and only caretaker. Trust me, I hate it as much as you do," she gives him a pointed look, "But unlike you, I don't like dying. Now, I'll remove that tube from your throat, but you gotta promise to stay quiet. Blink twice if you agree."_

_With much difficulties (his head wants to drift off as soon as he closes his eyes, but he'll be damned if he passes out now), he follows her orders. She disregards his discomfort and does her job as promised. It isn't pleasant, though at least it's quick._

_"What's the verdict, doc?" his voice is barely a whisper, but thankfully, Bela seems to understand him._

_"Broken bones, cracked skull, hundreds of stitches, bruises, and you also punctured your right lung. Or was it your left?" she shakes her head, "I'm not sure. The list is too long. Why would you want to know, anyway? It's not like you're the one paying for this."_

_She doesn't sound professional at all; it almost scares him._

_"Whatever. I was planning to keep you in a medically-induced coma for at least 3 more days, but Miss Masters said that two week's enough. I'm offended; she's not the one who finished med school." Letting out a sigh, she scribbles something on the clipboard. A long note, which makes him wary, but he couldn't complain, "However, she has my life in her hands and I don't want to die young. So please, follow whatever she says, or I'll cut off your other leg."_

_Wait, what? What the hell—_

_"Winchester!" The door slams open, and Meg, with bouquet of wilting black roses, strolls inside. She put her gift next to his head and rests her hands on her hip. "Lookin' good there! I've missed you!"_

_"Cut the crap," he manages to growl out. She let out gasp and places her palm over her chest, clearly mocking him._

_"I'm hurt, Dean. After all I've done for you, is that how you repay my kindness?"_

_He glares at her, now fully awake. His instinct just won't let his guard down around this demonic woman.  "You're not helping me for free. What favor were you talking about?"_

_She smiles. "I'm glad you remember. But that can wait, darling. With your current state, I'm pretty sure you can't even write your own name." The tone is mocking, and with each words, his irritation only grows, "Right now, just follow whatever your doctor says. And don't leave the bed. The cuffs are just for precautions, so please, don't damage them."_

_Meg turns to Bela, who goes rigid at the attention. "How long until I can use him? Weeks? Months?"_

_Bela frowns. "I'd say months. His bones has to heal properly, especially his ribs. There's the physical therapy, for his muscle atrophy and the amputation. I also have to keep an eye on his mental and emotional condition, considering—"_

_"He doesn't need a damn shrink," Meg snaps, " I just you to get him back on his feet—I mean foot, sorry not sorry—as soon as possible." She smirks at Dean, and he almost growls at her, "Don't forget to find him a prosthetic. He has so much work to do."_

_Prosthetic? What the hell, how the hell and why the hell?_

_Bela nods her head, and with a final wave, Meg leaves the room, slamming the door shut on her way out. The doctor lets out a deep breath and turns to Dean._

_He gives her his most disbelieving gaze. "Prosthetic?"_

_Bela gives him a bitter smile. "Yeah. For your right leg, from below the knee," from the small table behind her, she grabs a mirror, about half the size of his pillow, and angled it so that Dean can see the remaining of his legs.  And yes, there's a stump on where the bottom half of his right leg used to be at, wrapped in thick bandages and—_

_Dean closes his eyes and groans. God damn it._

_"I tried my best. The nerve damage was too severe."_

_He weakly nods his head. It will take a while before everything sinks in, Dean had gone through this before, but this time he will be alone. And that hurts._

_That hurts, so fucking much._

_'Cause here he is now, tied up to a hospital bed, wearing nothing but a pastel gown, barely able to move an inch, and now he lost half a leg. There's a sadistic bitch that can control every part of him now, including his medical treatment, and his doctor seems too afraid even to share her opinion._

_This isn't much better than with Alastair._

_And fuck, he can barely feel a thing now, but what happens once he comes down from the morphine high? He'll probably die._

_Right now, he'd rather die._

_"You heard what Miss Masters said. Any questions before I go?"_

_Bela. Bela sounds like she cares. Just a tiny little bit._

_He'll take whatever he can get._

That just proves how bad his issues are, huh?

_"The prosthetic," he whispers. Bela steps closer, giving him a confused look. He tries to smile._

_"Get me the best one. Drain her bank account."_

_Bela chuckles and nods her head._

 

* * *

 

Upon his return, Dean finds Krissy smoking right outside of the Chambers. She's sitting on the broken truck parked below the motel sign, one knee tucked up against her chest and the other swinging back and forth. She seems to be deep in thought, but she looks up as soon as she hears the footsteps.

It's not a surprise when she doesn't spare him a glance. Her eyes are locked on Juliet, who barks and tries to jump onto her. Krissy drops her cigarette and stomps on it, then she crouches down and allows Juliet to pamper her with messy, drooly kisses. Soon enough, the dog is satisfied, and she trots inside the motel, leaving her humans outside.

"Where have you been?"

What should he say this time? What will give her the least opportunity to ask more? Her questions are always exhausting, it's hard to keep up what lies he had told her.

Well, actually, there's no harm in telling the truth. That would be refreshing, he's been constantly lying for months now.

"I was with my Mom. And her friend, too." Too vague? Too honest? He can't tell anymore. Was it a good idea, to tell Krissy about this?

Krissy frowns at him. She doesn't seem to be suspicious, her expression is more... calculating. Confused. Not that Dean would blame her; he did leave in a hurry. He didn't have a valid reason, but at the time it felt like a good decision. His 'episodes' tend to muddle his thoughts. He wasn't fully coherent when he took the bus to Greenville (with Juliet, too. Krissy has a right to be worried).

"What happened to _'living a whole new life with a whole new identity'_ et cetera? You finally break or something?" The tone isn't even offensive, but he can tell that she is irritated.

"She saw me. I couldn't just lie and try to convince her that she's hallucinating, right?" Because honestly, there was nothing he could've done. Ellen caught him. Dean doesn't regret telling her everything, but it certainly would've been nice to meet under better circumstances. Less panic, less shouting, maybe a phone-call beforehand.

Krissy raises her eyebrow. "Your Mom or her friend?"

"My mom's dead." Was that too blunt? It was almost a Pavlovian response. Not exactly indifference, though he isn't as bothered as he was about his mother's death.

Her reply, however, is quite unexpected. "Oh. Same." Krissy Chambers is truly an enigma.

He gives her a pointed look, but she only rolls her eyes at him. Thankfully, she seems proud of her own interrogation. At least for now.

She turns and walks back to the motel. He follows without another word.

Dean barely sleeps that night. He spends hours tossing and turning on the bed, until he gives up and takes a cold shower. His leg doesn't ache as much, so he puts on his prosthetic (which is, surprisingly, still in a good condition) and drags himself to the kitchen. Breakfast starts off as normal, but Garth doesn't wave at him like he usually does. Missouri, however, gives him a big smile, as even she knew what he had done. Honestly, it's a little unnerving.

Krissy greets him with a nod. She stays quiet all through their meals, constantly checking her phone as if she couldn't wait to get out. When she finally leaves the table, Dean tries to talk to her.

He tells himself he doesn't care. But even then, he knows it's a denial. Krissy had done so much for him, it's only a given that he will worry. He won't admit it, though.

"What's up with you?"

She turns, eyes him from head-to-toe, and scowls. He waits. She crosses her arms, and their eyes meet. Juliet nudges at his good leg and whines.

Krissy gives up.

She closes her eyes and shakes her head, as if she can't believe that she's having this conversation. "Nothing. It's just—" She bits her lip and looks up, glaring.

"Strike one, Winchester. Be careful."

_Ouch._

 

* * *


	10. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael is actually not as harsh as he pretends to be. Too bad Claire's the only one who sees it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not Christmas, as my alpha reader points out already, but I'm pretty sure you guys wouldn't want to wait for months for a christmas scene. Dean needs a private moment with Claire for REASONS.
> 
> I enjoyed writing this so much, 'cause just like Claire, I hate Christmas. Sue me.
> 
> Happy reading.

Motel walls are thin, and if Claire holds her breath, she can hear people talking from the next room. And Michael, he screams. He yells and thrashes around in his sleep, writhing and whimpering until he wakes with a gasp. Then she can hear the clinking of glass—beer bottles, obviously—and a chair scratching against the floor.

Nobody said a word about it. Maybe they don't even know. Claire can't be sure, but as far as she remembers, Krissy is a heavy sleeper. Pam always wears earphones in her night-shifts, and Missouri never spends her night in the motel. That leaves Frank, and Frank wouldn't bother to check up on anyone. Any other tenants never mentioned it, either.

But Claire is a light sleeper. She's a creature of habit—spending years living in the street makes her cautious all the time, so the slightest whisper can wake her up. Whenever she spends the night at the motel, she always hears his cries. Or his heavy footsteps down the hall, moments before Juliet would wake from her own slumber and trots out of the room to follow him.

On rare occasions, it's quiet. For a man who makes noises even in his sleep, dead silence is worrying. Claire would sneak into his room, carrying a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wires, only to find the place empty. Sometimes she finds him smoking in the parking lot. Or drinking, yet Claire never sees him drunk—nobody has, in fact.

Though, if she's lucky, she would find him asleep on the couch, one hand dangling down and the other holding a book against his chest—Vonnegut. His prosthetic's on the floor, along with his crutches. No bottles or cans of any kind of alcohol, no cigarettes, just Michael and his lonesome self.

That's exactly what she finds this morning, as she arrives at The Chambers. It's two days before Christmas and as the ritual goes, Claire has been given free reign over the motel until New Year's Eve. Krissy has to attend Missouri's annual Christmas dinner _—not that Claire isn't invited, but she just can't get along with most of Missouri's family—_ and the remaining staff has their holiday break. Even Benny is visiting Andrea's parents back in Greece, while Eileen goes back to Cali to her boyfriend.

And nope, Claire isn't jealous.

Alright, maybe she is, just a tiny little bit.

Still, she doesn't want to deal with the whole Christmas tradition. It's too much for her. Claire used to like it, a long time ago, back when her parents were alive and a family gathering was always scheduled at least a month in advance. The Novaks weren't too friendly, but it's their common courtesy to invite as many people as they could in that big-ass mansion they call 'home'.

It always feels more like a meeting hall. So expensive with marble floors and paintings of angels on every wall, full of people dressed in gowns and dark suits. But none of them smiled for real. They all talked about all the evils in the world, sending prayers and wishes that people will change for the better, but they never do themselves.

Hypocrisy aside, the event was nice enough, and the housemaids always treated her like she's a princess, so in a way, she missed it. She missed the food and the board games and the giant tree with decorations made of glass and crystals.

But it just had to end. The senior Novaks were never fond of her mother, so as soon as James Novak was declared dead, they cut off his daughter from their family inheritance. Claire was just a Novak by name, no longer part of their bloodline.

Money shouldn't matter. But when you were just 14 and your mother was lying on her deathbed, it did matter.

Amelia died. Claire doesn't remember when did 'Mom' change from Amelia to Jody, but she doesn't dwell on it. The dead are dead and that's it. The dead won't complain about her stealing food and picking pockets to keep herself alive. The dead won't be mad at her for running away from people who treated her like shit.

The dead won't judge her for spending her free time with a shady guy in plaid shirt instead of socializing with people of her own age.

Michael wakes up when Claire is moving out her stuff from Jody's truck. He has been quiet ever since, taking a shower and making them breakfast without a single word, not even a glance at her direction. And she doesn't mind, really, but Mike usually uses sarcasm as his main language. Seeing him so reserved is almost concerning.

"Do you really have nowhere else to be?" she asks, once she finished the dishes. Don't take it wrong, Michael is an okay guy in general. His presence isn't exactly disturbing, the quiet company is just too unfamiliar. Krissy talks all the time, and Eileen never runs out of topics to discuss. Even Benny and Alex always has something to do or say, no matter how irritating they are.

This guy, for the past hour, has been flipping through that tiny encoded notebook he seems to always bring wherever he goes.

"If you want to kick me out, just say so. I'll pack up and leave," Michael replies, "You aren't with Jody, either, are you?"

Claire frowns. "It's a small town, Jody doesn't get Christmas breaks. Alex is having a sleepover, so yeah, that's why I'm here."

"Fair enough."

He doesn't say anything else, and well, isn't it just boring? He's going back to his notes, now scribbling something in who knows what language (it looks like Arabic). It's actually awesome, if only he isn't so secretive about it.

But back to the current issue: Claire just needs a decent human interaction.

"Should we buy a Christmas tree?" she blurts out.

Michael, who has been perched at the edge of the couch, finally looks up. "And who's paying for it?"

Claire shrugs, "I'm not the one with a steady income." Upon seeing Michael's glare, she raises her hands, "I mean, just buy a tiny one. We'll put it on the front desk, the motel needs a little Christmas vibe. Or we can dig through the attic and find something? I'm sure Krissy has some fairy lights too."

He seems ready to refuse. He already turns his attention back to that little old book, but then he stops and clenches his fist around his pen. Claire knows the look; she can't forget, from countless moments of watching him lost in his head. Eyes unfocused and body frozen in time, like a marble statue. So unreadable yet so open. Always so still, so sorrowful, so many thoughts of whatever past he's hiding.

She knows the look. Heavy with wariness, reluctance, maybe even fear. She'd seen it in the mirror. And of course, she understands how it feels, but where does it come from? All she asked was a yes-or-no question. It shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't drag him this deep into his mind.

_Was it a memory, a dream, or a nightmare?_

Michael snaps his book shut and lets out a sigh. He looks at her-she stares right back at his eyes-and finally, finally he smiles. Barely, but it still counts.

"... Alright. I suppose that's not a bad idea."

 

* * *

 

The store is packed, but hearing the faint Jingle Bells song is such a relief after being stuck with Michael for almost an hour. He drives just fine; the issue, is that he sings AC/DC and it was terrible.

"So, real tree or fake?"

"Fake. It's cheaper," Michael grunts, "And please don't pick anything weird."

Claire gives him her best scandalized look. "Hey, if we're getting plastic, might as well find the colorful ones! Or I'll paint it myself, and I'm pretty sure you won't trust me with that." She smirks in triumph at his expression, as he finally grabs a shopping cart.

Michael suggests that they should also buy groceries, so exploring the aisle takes a long while. Aside from the crowd, turns out that Mike is also a very strategic shopper—or he's just parsimonious, but that's highly unlikely. He compares different brands, their weights and prices, going as far as calculating the discounts in his head. Claire wants to protest, though she reminds herself that she's the one who drags him into this shopping spree. And it's his money, not hers, so he has every right to be stingy.

"Hey, Mike, don't forget the—"

He raises one of his hand and places his index finger in front of his closed lips. Claire frowns. Quiet? What for? With this many people, what even is the point of—

"You hear that?" he asks. At her confusion, he turns away, already walking out of the condiment aisle. Claire doesn't have the chance to stop him, but she does leave their shopping cart to follow him. Michael walks past the two next aisles, uncaring of the angry people he accidentally shoves aside (Claire apologizes profusely, _repeatedly,_ just for him), like a man on a mission.

Maybe he is.

He halts in front of the large ice cream freezer, and Claire almost yells at him, but then she stops just in time to see him crouching in front of a sobbing little girl.

"Hey there, buddy. You okay?"

The girl looks up, still wiping her tears from her eyes. "Papa?"

Michael gulps. _What was it that flashes in his eyes?_ Claire can't find the will to break the moment, when he smiles and slowly shakes his head at the kid. "I'm sorry, I'm not your papa. But we'll find him, okay?"

The girl whines as she raises her arms and God, Claire knows nothing about children, and what the hell, why is Michael picking her up? This child's gonna cry harder and they'll be kicked out of the store as potential kidnappers, or worse, child molesters—

Wait a minute, is he humming Metallica?

He is. He's singing the chorus of Enter Sandman while bouncing her on his hip, and now the kid has stopped crying. She's tracing the scars on his face, probably fascinated by those jagged white lines. He grins, turns his head and blows a raspberry kiss on her wrist. She bursts into laughter.

 _Well,_ Claire thinks, _this guy is actually good!_

"Where's our cart, Claire?"

 _Aw, damn it._ "Should I go get it?"

"Of course!" he hisses, "I'll stay here."

Unwillingly, Claire obliges. She tries to keep an eye out on anyone that might be looking for their daughter, but so far, all she sees are stressed out mothers and exhausted fathers. No panicking ones.

When she returns, the child is climbing up Michael's back. She settles on his shoulders, trapping his neck between her legs.

"Ready?" he asks, "Three... two... and, up you go!" he stands up, holding her ankles firmly as she grips onto his hair. She giggles in delight, looking down and waves at Claire, who only gives her an awkward smile in return. "Alright, Amy, how's it up there?"

"It's so high!"

"Tell us if you find your parents, okay?" The girl hums in reply, and this time, Michael turns to Claire. "What else do we need?"

"Something to fill your pie, then the Christmas tree itself and probably some decorations."

Michael nods. "So, my lady," he looks up, earning Amy's attention, "Where should we go first?"

"Pie!"

He grins. "Ah, a wise decision, indeed," he comments, voice deep and croaky. Claire can see the girl's amusement as Michael marches through the sea of people. Later, he starts a running commentary on each apple he picks, as if they were examining diamonds.It was ridiculous, and yet so heart-warming.

In the 4 months since Krissy brought him in, never once has Claire ever seen Michael look so content. Sure, there are so many things that are just so weird right now. There's a stranger's kid pulling at his hair (literally) and he's doing a terrible impression of Santa giving fruits as presents.

This is the guy who screams in his sleep. He keeps a gun under his pillow and knives in both his boots. This is the guy who walks around with a stab wound on his leg, the same guy who knocks someone out with a single punch.

This is the guy who has probably killed countless men, and yet his roughness disappears in front of a scared child.

_If Claire doesn't know any better, she would've thought that Amy is his own daughter._

"I think I like the white one. What do you think, buddy?" Michael asks. Now they're finally looking at Christmas trees and truly, Claire isn't disappointed by the choices. She's already pulling a light blue one from the rack when Amy stops her.

"Can we get the pink one?"

Call her lame, but Claire scowls at the little girl and drops the blue tree into their cart with a fierce "No."

Misty eyes stare back at her, pleading. "Pretty please...?"

Michael sends her a warning glare and returns the tree back to its place. Which is rude, for one, and also inconsiderate. 'Cause this kid isn't even gonna enjoy the damn tree, and it was Claire's idea, so she should be the one who picks the color.

"Alright. Which one do you want, then?"

_What the hell, Mike? There's only one shade of pink here!_

"That one!" Amy reaches out to grab not the first, not the second, but the third pink tree from the front, effectively dropping the surrounding ones from the metal rack. As expected, Claire is the one who had to deal with the aftermath, earning annoyed looks from the other shoppers as she tries to fix the mess.

"Michael, I swear, I'm gonna—"

"Mister, I think I can see Mama!" Amy exclaims, now restless, waving her hands restlessly.

Michael smiles. "You can? Where is she?" he asks, "Yellow dress? The one with glasses?"

"Yes! Mama!" Claire can't stop herself from smiling when a young woman rushes towards them. Michael slowly crouches down to let Amy run to her mom. "Thank you, Mister!"

Michael exchanges a few words with Amy's mother. Claire feels more awkward talking to Amy, since children are never her expertise, but at least Amy does most of the talking. She's interested in neither unicorns nor hedgehogs _(and how can they be connected, anyway?)_ , but she can agree with the kid's appreciation of Moana.

As the mother-daughter pair waves them goodbye, Claire goes back to her gloomy friend. "I didn't know you were that good with kids!"

"Don't—" he sighs, as his gaze lands on her, "... You know it was in my job description, right? Serve and protect?"

"Alex's job is to save people's lives and she encouraged Krissy to beat up her ex," Claire argues. "And she's a pediatric intern, but you handled that better than she would've."

He stares at her for a moment, then turns away and grabs their shopping cart. "You're not the only child I've ever had to babysit."

Who's the other child(ren), then? Just 'babysitting' wouldn't send a guy to the memory lane. It wouldn't spark life in his eyes. It wouldn't erase the remains of war and turn him soft.

But fine. It isn't her right to pry.

"Hey, I thought we were making blueberry pies. You wanna switch out any of this?" she points at the apples, the tiny panda charm, and so on. Michael shakes his head and tosses her his wallet.

"Not even the Christmas tree?"

He frowns. "I just want to go home, Claire."

Home? Does he really consider their motel 'home'? That's actually sweet. But this evasion, while Claire wouldn't want to hurt his feelings, it makes her want to poke and prod until he spills whatever he's hiding. Out of curiosity. Out of worry.

Krissy's complaints actually make sense now.

"Alright. I'll pay this and we'll hit the road."

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Pride Month, guys!  
> I'm out and proud, but especially for those who can't or don't want to be, you are just as valid!
> 
> Love you all! Keep fighting!


	11. Novaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Novaks are never merciful, even towards their own blood...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A WHOLE CHAPTER IN CASTIEL'S POINT OF VIEW!!!!  
> or, my lame attempt to apologize for the late, late, very late chapter. I got a job (for 2 weeks) and it left me too exhausted to write anything. Then I had to take care of my college administration, so, yeah...
> 
> Anyways, let's look at Castiel's stressful holiday!

Christmas is always a hectic holiday, even for Castiel Novak. Despite his wealth and social status, a lot of things always managed to (almost) break him.

One of those, unfortunately, is his own family.

The Novaks are suckers for traditions, especially the religious ones. Christmas is the time for the family to gather and brag to each other about their accomplishments during the year, to point out faults and weaknesses they found in other people.

This always managed to drive away most of the good people. His cousin, James. His brother, Gabriel. Even Sam Winchester, with a heart of gold and patience rivaling angels themselves, can't stand the Novaks' annual dinner.

For Castiel, it's a mere obligation, to keep his head up and his mouth shut, except to give brief reports of the company and his own expectation as the CEO.

"Mr. Novak, your parents have arrived at the airport. Your driver will take them to the main house."

"Tell him to pick up a bouquet from the florist." Castiel looks up from his papers, "Give it to my mother, along with the card. I hope I haven't offended her with my absence."

"I'm sure she'll be delighted with your gesture," Tessa replies, as she took away the empty cup from his desk, "Anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"No, I think that's all. Thank you, Tessa." His assistant smiles, "Have a pleasant holiday."

"You too, sir. Merry Christmas."

Castiel spends another hour re-checking and signing papers, stacking them up into a neat pile before he turns off the light and leaves his office. A long way down to the underground parking lot, then he's driving away from the building.

Novak Petrochemical Company was founded by his grandfather, Uriel Novak, and was supposed to belong to Gabriel, his big brother. But Gabe refuses out of spite, so the throne goes to Castiel. Castiel, who spent years studying literature instead of business.

Somehow, he handles it better than his father.

In half an hour, Castiel reaches the main house. "Welcome home, sir," Arthur Ketch, his butler, takes his bag from his hands and opens the door, "Madam Naomi and Master Charles are resting in their room. Should I inform them of your arrival?"

"Not yet, I want to take a shower. Who else is here?"

"Master Balthazar and Madam Hannah arrive six hours ago. They informed me, their son will be a little late. Your brother is also here—he refuses to meet anyone but you," Arthur says with a frown, "Madam Hester is also on her way, along with her son. Her parents will be here soon. I haven't heard from Master Gadreel, but considering the incident last year, I assume he'll join us tonight."

"We're not waiting for him." It isn't a question—Gadreel had caused enough scene last Christmas, when he dared to make comments on Gabriel's preferred career. And that wasn't the first time. He was the one who tears apart their family with his bitter words and manipulative ways—

Thinking about it always makes him seethe.

"Of course, sir."

Not long after, Castiel dismisses the butler and retreats back to his room.

 

* * *

 

Dinner is served half-an-hour later, when Castiel has changed into another suit (for a meal in his own home, dear Lord) and battled his untamable hair. Castiel, CEO of their family business, sits at the end of the table, while his father Charles, as the eldest member of the Novak clan, is seated on his right. Next to him is his wife Naomi, clad in a blood-red dress matching the stern look on her face. Gabriel managed to snatch Joshua's usual spot beside Castiel, and while neither men minded, he still received a dirty look from their aunt, Duma.

"So, Castiel..." Hester starts, with that smug smile on her face, "Have you meet anyone special? It's been years; surely someone has caught your eyes."

It's a miracle, to think that this woman raised Samandriel on her own. The kid is an angel, gentle and soft-spoken, only a few years younger than the brash, albeit just as kind-hearted, Claire Novak.

"My love life is none of your concern, cousin," he replies, keeping his voice calm. Gabriel snorts, muttering his personal comment— _"You don't have a love life, Cassie."_ —as he steals a piece of chicken from Castiel's plate. Considering how hard it was to convince his big brother to join dinner, he wouldn't even bother correcting his manners.

When Hester doesn't falter, Samandriel exchanges a slightly apologetic look with Castiel. "I don't mean to pry. But surely your parents are waiting for grandchildren. As the head of the company, you will need a successor, don't you agree?"

"Let him be, Hester," Joshua, always the peacekeeper, tries to stop her. "Castiel is grieving. Give him time."

"Grieving? What's the matter?"

"Dean was declared KIA a few months ago."

"Dean? As in, Dean Winchester?" It irritates him, to hear Dean's name in such a distasteful manner, but Zachariah was never one to appreciate good people. It's enough to excuse Hester and Gadreel's horrible attitude; he can't imagine Duma and Zach as affectionate parents. "I recall he was barbarous, not to mention witless. I can imagine him taking after his alcoholic father. It's a surprise that his brother at least grew up to be a decent man."

"I think he was a good kid," Hannah, probably the most benevolent among her siblings, defends. Charles is a calculative businessman and Duma is just as ruthless, but Hannah raised her sons with compassion. While her husband Balthazar isn't as successful as his in-laws, James and Joshua undoubtedly had the best childhood among their cousins. "I'm sorry for your loss, Castiel."

A string of condolences follows hers. Castiel nods and smiles, though the topic is starting to numb him. All the comfort they offered is based on mere common etiquette, not genuine concern. It never makes him feel better.

"You said he was declared KIA. Was he an officer of some sort?"

"He was a Marine. Staff Sergeant, if I'm not mistaken?" Gabriel turns to Castiel, who nods his confirmation, "Deano signed up when Sammy graduated high school. His teammates said he's deployed longer than he's not."

"So he had served for, how long? Ten, fifteen years?"

"Uh..." Gabriel counts with his fingers, "About, twelve years, give or take. He left the house in late 2001, went MIA in mid-2014. They found his body a year later. Or, not his body, because there's barely anything left to bury. But there's blood all over the room, at the heart of enemy's territory—"

"Gabriel, that's enough."

Though the brunet sulks in his seat, he obeys his little brother. Dinner continues with no other interruptions, but the tension in the room hasn't dissipated. Clearly, others have more to say. Unfortunately, Castiel is in no mood to deal with them. Gabriel's almost graphic description already irks him.

"Are you alright, Gadreel?" Duma asks, breaking the silence, "You've been quiet. What are you thinking?"

Her son, who's nursing his fourth glass of wine, gives her a thin smile. Almost sardonic. "My own pondering is of no importance. Don't mind me." That, he says, but there's a sly look in his eyes, one that Castiel despises most.

"Oh, do enlighten us, brother," Hester tells him. Gabriel looks ready to smite her.

Gadreel leans back to his chair. "It's neglectful, don't you agree? For a Marine to be captured alone, when they weren't even supposed to be on their own... That is, if he really was captured."

Joshua frowns. "Are you implying that..."

"I think it's suspicious. You said he was first declared MIA," Gadreel smirks at Gabe, who glares in return, "so what could possibly prove that he didn't leave on his own accord? I reckon he's not above working for his foes, knowing barely anything ties him to his home."

Gabriel scoffs. "I know you didn't like him, Gadreel, but are you insane?"

"Unlike yours, my judgment isn't biased," he reasons, "Just consider the idea. What has he got to lose? His family, whom he abandoned forever ago? His honor, when no one even knows where he had been? Dean was never that much of a noble man. When push comes to shove, he never hesitates to defy the authority, if only to save his hide. His family never had a steady income, how did you think they manage to afford anything they have? Take their beast of a car as an example—"

"I think that's more than enough from you, asshole—"

"Throughout adolescence, he was reckless, often violent, neither bright nor considerate. Dean Winchester was never good news," he cut Gabriel off, "Surely you're not that naive? Even after his funeral, which he didn't even deserve, I find it hard to find any good in him."

Utter silence. Out of wariness or contemplation, no one's sure, but Gabriel himself is pissed. Hester seems to be amused, though she's hiding her smile behind her wine glass as if waiting for another to challenge her brother. Hannah looks genuinely worried, as does Joshua and his wife, Rachel. Balthazar, while he hides his emotions quite well, glances at Castiel. As if asking for his response.

And who is he to deny it?

"Are you done?"

Everyone turns to look at him. Castiel puts down his fork and knife, wipes his hands as he studies the faces of each of his guests. He stops at Gadreel. "To be fair, you're entitled to have your opinion. Winchesters are grunts. Lowlives, marching to death's door for the fleeting rush of adrenaline. A withering alcoholic, a public interest lawyer, and now, a dead soldier," he starts. His chair scrapes against the floor and he rises to his feet. "Who am I to judge? After all, you never knew him as well as I did."

"I never demand much from you, cousin. But this is my home, and the least you could've done was to refrain yourself from saying such terrible accusations. Dean Winchester was a dear friend of mine, and if you can't respect him even after his death, I don't think I'm obliged to feed you under my roof."

"After dinner, please excuse yourself from my residence. Goodnight."

Castiel turns and walks out of the dining room.

 

* * *

 

He never enjoyed any altercations with his family members, despite their arrogance, but Gadreel had crossed a line. Castiel couldn't find it in him to regret what he did. Now, sitting on his bed with a book in his hands, there's this itch to release his pent-up anger, but he knows blind rage won't solve a thing.

"Sir?" comes Arthur's voice from behind the door, along with a gentle knock, "May I enter?"

Castiel sighs. "Yes. Come in, Arthur."

The butler does so, though he keeps his distance a good few feet away. "Master Gadreel has left the mansion. I assume he will not be invited tomorrow?"

"And ban him from any other event in the future, personal matters or official ones."

"Understood. Everyone else has retreated back to their rooms, except for Madam Hannah, who wishes to speak to you. If you're amenable...?"

"Of course. Tell her to meet me in the living room. Also, bring us some tea, will you?"

"Right away, sir."

Arthur leaves. Castiel walks out of his bedroom, carrying his laptop as he descends to the living room. Too large for a private talk between two people, but better than stuck in his office.

He doesn't have to wait for long for someone to call his name.

"Aunt Hannah, hello." He smiles, waiting for her to take her seat. "It's nice to see you, now that we're out of such a formal setting."

She chuckles. A maid drops by to deliver them a pot of tea and two porcelain cups, then she bows and disappears as quietly as she came. "I know. As unpleasant as it was, our conversation got me thinking."

"About?"

"Jimmy."

Ah, James Novak. Son of Hannah and Balthazar, brother of Joshua. So easy to love, so dearly missed. He was a good man, married to a very kind woman, and his daughter was such an angel.

"I thought that I've moved on," Hannah says, "but to hear about the Winchesters, about Dean..." She lets out a heavy sigh, "I knew him. He was a good kid at heart. And I knew he never got along with his father..."

Castiel squints.

"I'm not blind, Castiel. You brought him here several times, and I saw how defensive he got whenever we brought up John Winchester. Certainly, I don't know John personally. But I can imagine, as a parent, how painful it is to lose your child so suddenly... and losing the chance to reconcile with them? That ought to be his biggest regret."

Oh, he regrets so many things, Sam made sure of that. Even John himself wouldn't know where to start.

"I made the same mistake, Castiel."

_You did._

Castiel pours a cup of tea for each of them and offers one to her. She sips on it gratefully.

"I shouldn't have allowed my father to disown Amelia and Claire. I should've defended them."

_You did. It just wasn't enough._

Nevertheless, he smiles. "Everyone knows grandfather wouldn't have let anyone change his mind."

"It doesn't excuse my silence," she argues. "I don't want to make the same mistake as John Winchester did. My first son deserves better. At least, I should try to fix what I had done." A hesitant pause, "Do you think I have the chance, Castiel?"

"I know you do," he assures her, "but why would you come to me, Aunt Hannah?"

She fidgets in her seat. Fiddles with her wedding ring, eyes downwards, as if organizing her next words in her mind. "I called Amelia's old number, but I couldn't reach her. Then I tried her house's, yet a stranger answered. I didn't even know she'd already sold the house," she admits, "I was hoping if you could help me find her. You have the best... resources, among all of us."

_You mean money. Social status. My title as the CEO._

_But fine. As long as you have no ill intent, I'm willing to spare my time for you._

"Aunt Hannah, I don't know how to break it to you..." he begins, pulling her hands into his and softly strokes her knuckles. She seems wary, now, though she doesn't try to pull away. "...but Amelia, she's gone."

Tears pool under her eyes, and she covers her mouth with her hands. "Heavenly Father!" she gasps, "How could I not know of this? When, Castiel? What happened? "

_Life, as Claire would say. Life happened._

"She fell ill, not long after Jimmy's funeral. She never recovered. Within months, she passed away."

His stoicism surprises himself. After the emotional turmoil he had to repress during dinner, he finds it much easier to distance himself from his sorrows over Amelia.

_"She was my mother, not yours, so don't you dare cry in front of me! You didn't even try to save her!"_

"And Claire?" Hannah asks, voice pained, "Who takes care of her, afterward?"

"Herself," _and lord, was she mad about it,_ "From what she told me, she had to fend for herself for a few years."

"But, Castiel, she was just a young child, how could she—" her voice breaks into sobs. Castiel moved to her side and pulls her close, rubbing her back as he whispers comforting words in her ears. "Castiel, I should've—"

"You tried your best, Aunt Hannah. Claire is a fighter. She survived."

"But no child should've been forced to endure that!"

"And we can't change the past, can we?" he inquires, gently, "If it's any consolation, she's living quite a good life now. When I found her, a sheriff has already adopted her. Claire has a good home and a new family who loves her."

She continues to weep, however, and Castiel can only offer his silent company. He doesn't know how much time has passed when she finally speaks.

"Does she hate me?"

"She hated all of us," not the best thing to say, but Castiel knows Hannah would appreciate the honesty, "though she isn't one to hold grudges. She forgives you a long time ago."

Hannah wipes the tears from her eyes. "Just like Jimmy. I'm glad," she tells him, "Can you give me her number?"

Castiel mulls over it.

"I have to ask her," he decides, "it was hard enough to regain her trust, I don't think she would be happy to hear from us without any warning in advance."

"I suppose that would be wise, yes. Thank you, Castiel."

They talk for a bit longer, at least until Balthazar comes down to look for his wife. They bide him goodnight, and as the house quiets down, Castiel allows himself to lean back in his seat and lets out a deep breath.

He would love to go to bed now, but there's still another person to talk to, and he can't delay it for tomorrow. The Christmas party will be too taxing, so might as well finish his business tonight.

That is, if she's still awake.

Oh, who is he kidding? Of course she is.

Castiel turns on his laptop and waits for his Skype to load. There are four miscalls already, and since she's still online, Castiel decides to call her. The camera is a little blurry at first, but then her face comes into view.

"Uncle Cas! You're late, like, two hours late! Why—"

"Hello to you too, Claire."

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write more but I also want to update asap...  
> So, see you in the next chapter?


	12. Michael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas calls Claire. Something sounds strange about her new friend, Michael.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, it takes so long! A whole month, I'm so sorry it was so late! This one's not edited, I got a headache (and I'm lazy)  
> Good news, though: I've finished almost every administration stuff for my college, so... more time to write. At least before my classes starts.  
> Shout out to smolstan for their comments! You motivate and inspire me, I can't thank you enough! Hugs from me to you (and to all my readers who accepts hugs :D )

On some days, she does care. No matter how horrible they treated her family, the Novaks were her family. Uriel did disown her, that terrible excuse of a great-grandfather, but he's dead now. Just like her parents. The rest of the Novaks are pretty much alright, most of the time.

So, on some days, Claire thinks of them. Wonders, plays with the idea that some of them might regret what they did to her family.

At least she knows one of them does.

Castiel is a few years younger than her own dad, James. For cousins, they were close. They attended the same school, joined the same club (Poetry, of all things), and were the same type of quiet, nerdy kids who were pretty much invisible except to a tiny group of close friends they hung out with.

One of those friends, Castiel told her, died a few months ago.

He seemed so heartbroken about it.

_(Considering everything he's ever said about that 'friend', Claire doesn't believe that there isn't something more.)_

Claire likes to think that Castiel felt the same hurt when James died. But that would be unfair to Castiel. He's a good person at heart. He genuinely worries about her, it's clear from that look on his face whenever he calls her. Though his questions barely vary from 'how are you', 'how was school', and 'is there anything you need', Claire appreciates his efforts to get to know her.

_"Hello to you too, Claire."_

She scowls, because no one can know that she enjoys his calls. Except Krissy. Maybe Jody, too. But everyone else? It's none of their business. "That's all?" she demands, "That's all you got to say? What took you so long, anyways? This is way past your usual schedule. I almost thought you forgot me."

Castiel sighs. Claire kinda pities him, he seems exhausted. _"Something came up—Hannah asked about you. I'll give the details, but first, how have you been?"_

She suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. This guy needs to stop treating her like a child. Unconsciously, she lifts her hand to rub on her eyes, but she realizes her mistake once she sees his face. Fuck, he's gonna start asking questions.

"I'm fine!" she hisses, "Michael was just teaching me some of his tricks." She shows him her bandaged knuckles and the several band-aids on her arms, if only to satiate his worry, "We sparred a bit and I'm terrible at holding myself back. He had bruises, too, so I think it's a win for me!"

If Castiel dares to freak out, she swears she's gonna hang up.

_"And who's Michael?"_

Well, she should've seen that one coming.

"New guy," she chirps casually. If she tell him about Michael's weird 'episodes' and his shady behaviors, Castiel might start a whole background check. That's a violation of privacy and Mike doesn't deserve that. "He saved Krissy from getting molested a few months ago. He's been living at the motel. Works for Benny, now. I would introduce you to him, but he's sleeping already."

Castiel tilts his head. That small gesture somehow doesn't seem weird on him. _"This early?"_

She shrugs. "Everyone has their issues, I guess. Poor guy can't stay asleep for too long. Bad case of regular nightmares."

 _"Oh."_ He frowns, _"That doesn't sound healthy."_

Claire raises an eyebrow, giving him the best 'seriously?' look she can muster.

_"Well, I would like to see him, anyways. Can that be arranged? I want to make sure that—"_

"Aw, come on!" she cuts him off, "I can take care of myself! And Michael won't hurt a fly. He can kill a man with his bare hands, but he won't touch me or Krissy!"

_"Not helping, Claire."_

Right.

She let out a heavy breath. "Stop hovering. I'm okay," she says. Time to change the topic. "You're the one who looks ready to collapse. Was dinner that terrible?"

Castiel runs his fingers through his hair. Oh, God. It's pretty bad, then. _"Yes,"_ he admits, _"Gadreel tried to amuse himself by insulting one of my closest friends. It was... infuriating."_

"I never liked him. You should've kicked him out."

_"I did."_

Claire grins. Now that's new. "Really? That's amazing! Did you record it? Please tell me you record it. What did you scare him with? Threats, blackmails, or did you say  that you would fire him? That would be funny. You have  CCTVs, right? Can you check if you got it on tape—"

 _"I think you're enjoying this more than you should, Claire,"_ Castiel comments, which, if Claire has to be honest, is quite true. And of course she is! Castiel is always one to avoid confrontation; to know that he had fought Gadreel, of all people, is very surprising. Not to mention entertaining. _"I suppose that's understandable. Fine, I'll ask my brother if he had documented our conversation."_

"Thank you!" Claire exclaims, and it warms her (cold) heart to finally see Castiel's smile.

Cas's a good guy. He's just too awkward most of the time, so people thought he's inconsiderate. But he's not, he really is not. Although, he should try to improve his people skill. And Claire is about to point that out, when suddenly Juliet raises her head, alert as she usually does whenever there's something suspicious.

"Julie? What's wrong?"

The dog whines. She trots out of the front lobby, towards the stairs, and then there's the sound of her claws scratching up a door. Ah, the poor door. That just won't do—ugly, scratched up doors are just... it'll be a waste of money to fix.

Time for damage control.

"I should check that out." Claire flips the 'Be Back Soon' sign on the desk. Castiel frowns, but she only shoves her phone in her pocket, ignoring his worried _"What's going on?"_  and _"Are you sure this is a good idea?"_  as she usually does.

Claire really should've told him the things she'd done to feed herself.

Anyways, she makes her way upstairs. She finds Juliet in front of Michael's room (she should've seen that coming), clearly distressed, and now she too can hear the muffled groans from behind the door.

"Michael?" she calls. Castiel goes quiet—seems suspicious, but she can't bother. He's probably just curious or something. "Are you alright?"

There's a loud 'thump', followed by slow, heavy footsteps, and then the door creaks open. Michael peeks out, eyes red and bleary, hair ruffled with sweat running down his skin. He squints at her, though he opens the door wider, stepping aside to let her in. She doesn't miss the dagger in his left hand and he notices it.

She bites her bottom lip. "Well, it's your business. I get it, man. Can't ever be too careful."

Michael nods. Juliet nudges his good leg with her muzzle, and as expected, Michael makes the effort to put down his crutch and sit on the floor, allowing the dog to check over him and finally settle her head on his lap.

Claire lets out a sigh. Michael really looks like crap. Like, more crap than usual. He doesn't seem fully awake, either; like part of him still thinks he's in a dream. Doesn't mean she doubts his ability to attack anyone even  at this state. "You sure you'll be okay? You look kinda pale."

He waves his hand dismissively. Fine, if he says so. It's not like she can force him to spill whatever the hell is wrong with him. And that won't be fair, too. God know she has her own baggage, teenage angst and all that.

"I'll be downstairs if you need me."

Going back to the main lobby, she finds Pamela already sitting behind the desk, so Claire bids her goodnight and  returns to her own room. After settling on her bed, she pulls out her phone, only to see _Gabriel_  currently interrogating Castiel.

Fuck. Nope. That's bad news. Gabe aren't good at keeping people's secrets.

In that short moment of freak out, Claire ends the call and shoves the phone under her pillow, covering her face with her blanket as she cusses her heart out.

Well, at least they already sorted out whatever they had to tell each other, right? New people, the usual Novaks' antics, Claire-is-okay and Castiel-is-still-boring, what else? Looks like they've mentioned everything—

Or not. Castiel did say that Hannah was looking for her, but what does she even want? Hasn't she—no, haven't _they_  done enough to ruin her life? She trusted Castiel because he was the only one who tried to defend her parents, but everyone else?

Oh, Claire would die before she even consider seeing any of them.

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes with a gasp, quiet and cold. His fingers are already wrapped around the hilt of his knife, his other hand clutching the sheets under him.

So. One of those nights, again.

Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and waits for his heartbeat to slow down. It doesn't take too long, as he barely remembers what his dream was about, but the effect stays the same. Exhaustion, mostly. Exhaustion and the instinctual need to defend himself.

Not that he has to. Not anymore.

"Michael?"

Wait, who?

Oh, right. That's him. _Michael Remington, ex-marine, no family and no home._

"Are you alright?"

His head is starting to hurt. Dean turns, using the headboard as leverage as he stands up, reaching for the crutches beside the bed. He grabs one and drops the other—he leaves it be. The floor sways under his blurry sight; something is trying to pull him down— _Come on, pet, I know you can hear me. On your knees! Down, boy!_ —it's a miracle he manages to reach the door at all.

He unlocks the latch and opens it.

In front of him, is Biker Barbie and her puppy ( _Claire and Juliet,_ his mind supplies, _not dangerous_ ).

Dean lowers his dagger. Her gaze follows the said weapon, and there's an unreadable look on her face; resignation, and perhaps a hint of disappointment.

"Well, it's your business. I get it, man. Can't ever be too careful."

He slowly nods his head. The dog starts fussing over him, so Dean sits down and waits as Juliet circles him over and over, sniffing at him and licking at his hands. She finally seems satisfied and rests her head on his lap.

Claire speaks up. "You sure you'll be okay? You look kinda pale."

Dean waves his hand, telling her to leave. He just wants to be alone now. It's hard enough to string his thoughts together, let alone speak. She seems to understand, thankfully, as she decides to close the door and walks away, though not without one last try to offer her help.

Dean appreciates it.

And so, Christmas passed. So does New Year. Nothing special happened, not for Dean, not when he locks himself  up in his room for a whole week. Not when he only interacts with Juliet, who barely replies with anything  more than silent huffs and gentle licks. That's all he could handle, too. His knee is acting up and his head feels like it's splitting open, he could barely get up from his bed.

Claire leaves him alone.

Krissy brings him food at least twice a day. She doesn't talk much, though she thanked him for going out his way to keep Claire company. All they did was more for his sake rather than hers, but Dean doesn't even have the energy to point that out.

He shouldn't be surprised, really. Late December is always stressful for him, with restless nights and jumbled thoughts, or sudden dizziness and nausea whenever his mind wanders too far. He knows it has everything to do with Emma, with Lydia, but this time it feels more painful. Last year he was pumped full with morphine, too high to even think about dwelling in his loss. The years before, he still has Adam, distracting him with whatever they had in hand.

This time, he's grieving on his own.

Maybe it's ungrateful of him, but the motel makes it harder. His new patchwork of a pseudo family makes it harder. Watching Claire and Krissy's closeness, listening to Garth and Benny gushing about their wives and children, it all just pains him.

He almost had what they had. And he lost everything in a matter of minutes, so of course, call him spiteful, but he knows his anger is justified.

Justified, when he has to lie and keep his mouth shut to avoid another death. Justified, when nobody remembers them properly; his girls and himself, and of course, Adam. Justified, when the world gives him no chance to sit down and process all that happened.

No rest for the wicked, he supposes.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohoho, Dean has 'girls'? Who were they? Any guesses?
> 
> Posting this chapter (and re-reading, archiving previous ones) gives me ideas. A new 'arc' is starting soon!
> 
> \- Jen, over and out!


	13. Threats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep telling myself, "write and write, stop re-reading everything you bookmarked!" Look how I've fallen, we used to have biweekly updates and last chapter? A whole month? 
> 
> At least this one takes 3 weeks.
> 
> Btw, anyone remembers Miss Talbot?

When Dean finally emerges from his lair, he bumps into Claire on his way to the kitchen. She spills her coffee on him, but an apology isn't the first thing coming out of her mouth (not that he expects one).

"You don't look better."

He glares. That was rude. "I'm not here for your entertainment, thank you." Not that he likes how he looks, either, but it's still unpleasant to think about. Sleep deprivation and constant stress aren't a good combination on his already scarred face.

"Okay, okay," she cringes, though she does gesture at her half-empty mug, "Coffee?"

He huffs at her offer as he pushes his way past her, looking for breakfast. Cereals aren't too sustainable, but he doesn't think he can eat anything heavier. "Where's Krissy?"

"She's helping out at Benny's. Eileen's still on her way back, so he needs a hand. You're going there?"

"Seems like I should."

There's an unreadable look in Claire's face, but she doesn't say a thing. Dean does his best to ignore her gaze as he shoves spoonfuls of milk and Fruit Loops into his mouth.

He leaves the motel, 20 minutes later, with Juliet trotting behind him.

Benny barely bats an eye at his entrance, tossing him his apron and gestures at the pile of dishes behind him. "You know that girl can be picky," he says, "She only wants to take the orders."

"... Right."

"Do the tables too, will ya?"

So he does all the cleaning.

It makes it easy to sink back into the depths of his mind. No one tries to talk to him (because Krissy can be a chatterbox who, thankfully, purposefully shifted people's attention to herself) and he prefers it that way.

_A quiet lullaby, drips of water falling onto his face. Pain. So much pain, a burning pain through his whole body. Pale, slender fingers, running through his damp hair, massaging his scalp and suddenly, suddenly his head is yanked forward. It stings._

_"You look gorgeous all strung up like this, Green Eyes."_

_His throat itches. He wanted to answer, but it was hard to breathe, let alone speak._

_"They called you righteous. I wonder if that even means anything, with the way you shot your partner yesterday. That was so graceful of you."_

_No. He didn’t mean to kill Adam._

_But the kid begged, he fucking begged for it, and who is he to deny his wish?_

_"You don’t have to go through this, Dean, you know that?"_

_He wants to shake his head, to spit on her face, but the  woman seems to read his thoughts. "Oh, don’t be so hateful, Dean. Save it for later. I'm not the one who's gonna break you, I’m just here to watch."_

(In the end, she did break him.)

_The walls seem to creep farther and farther away from  him, and yet, he's still stuck in this same, tiny,   suffocating little cell. Still with his wrists tied to the ceiling, still with his toes barely touching the floor._

_He doesn't hear the door opens. He can't, not with his ears constantly ringing, turning the voices into quiet murmurs he can barely decipher. Not that he wants to; they tend to talk about him, or Sam, or their parents, and family is never a pleasant topic for him._

_Suddenly, there's a hand grabbing his chin and pulling  him forward, forcing him to lift his head. Another slaps his cheek—it gives him a short moment of clarity, clearing the thick fog in his head, allowing him to think, to remember, just for a little while._

_Doesn't make any of it better, but he'd rather not die in oblivion._

_He blinks a few times, refocusing his sight on the man in front of him._

_Alastair._

_"Good. I thought you were dead; that would be a pity," Alastair muses, "You're my favorite, so far. How are you today, Winchester?"_

_He keeps his mouth shut._

_Alastair frowns. "Quiet today, huh? That's fine." He pulls out a pair of rubber gloves, slowly putting them on as Ruby pushes a very familiar cart into the room. She gives him a coy smile before leaving the room, locking the door behind her._

_"I'm sure I can make you scream."_

For fuck's sake, it's been a year—he's pretty sure he deserves a break from all this shit with Alastair, Ruby, with the whole 'Knight of Hell' and 'The Rack' and—

"Michael!"

Dean turns, only to be pulled into a bone-crushing hug from no other than Eileen. Eileen, who drops her giant bags beside her as she holds him by the shoulders, examining his face and shaking her head with a frown. "Gosh, Krissy weren't lying when she said you were sick. You're not dying, are you?"

"Not at the moment, no," he retorts. So people are gossiping about him now? That's just great. "I wasn't sick. It was just..." _whiplash?_ _Mental breakdown?_ Possibly triggered after that shopping trip and, well, Amy. Or that pink Christmas tree. Whatever. December is always terrible. He folds the dirty rag in his hands and shoves it into his apron. _Why would you even talk about this?_ he signs, _Why would she even tell you?_

_Because I asked her._ Her 'duh' expression almost rivals Claire's, and that's quite unnerving. _And we're friends, so I think I have the right to worry._

What the hell?

_Thank you,_ he slowly signs, though he also squints his eyes, like he's not sure if it's an appropriate reply.

It doesn't bother her. "You're welcome!" she exclaims, audibly, "Now how about you help me get my stuff inside? I have a great news to tell you all."

"Eileen..." Dean starts, because he's only been here for barely 4 months, so he knows he shouldn't be included in whatever she's about to share. But Eileen seems to read his mind, and disagrees, as she pulls him down to whisper in his ears.

"I'm getting married!"

 

* * *

 

He proposed to Lydia, too. And she rejected him out of kindness.

They were mature enough to realize there wasn't any spark between them. Marriage would only strain their relationship; they didn't need that. They had enough things to stress about, like Emma and their 'home' and their jobs, because life back then was so harsh, it still haunts him until now. And the least he can do is to _provide_ , yet he also failed at that.

Cheers.

Seeing Eileen's excitement should break his heart. Then he realizes that she's right, that she's his friend, so he's genuinely happy for her. Whoever her fiance is, he must be a good man—she did said that he came from a big city, with a prestigious job, yet he's been hers for years. Not everyone appreciates a deaf woman from a small town, Eileen points out.

She tells him this last part with a look he couldn't decipher; her fingers move so quickly he barely catches her words.

(Eileen doesn't keep many secrets, but anything she hides, it's always the strangest things, and she hides them well.)

The next day, Benny closes Purgatorium early to celebrate. Dean politely excuses himself (Pam owes him one—she gets to join the drinking games), enduring the girls' complaints when he takes off his apron and walks out of the back door. At the motel, he stays at the main lobby, seated behind the desk as he reads another of Claire's (fantasy) novel collection. Juliet comes in about an hour later—looks like she got tired of the crowd, too.

The night is pretty much quiet, until a key is dropped onto the desk.

"I'm leaving," says a frantic voice, "Throw away everything I have in my room. If anyone comes to—" the voice stops. "Oh, god. Winchester."

Dean looks up, and frowns. "Devereaux. What's going on?"

"It's—" Frank looks away. Dean doesn't bother moving from his seat, knowing full well that the guy will eventually crack under the pressure. It just takes a little time and maybe some... promises. "Ruby. Ruby, the woman with the knife. Alastair's."

 _That bitch._ Dean's more than ready to strangle her, if she dares to show her face after everything she did. Good Lord, he won't even hold back this time. Dean doesn't even realize he's already cracking his knuckles, until he hears Frank pushing the keys closer to him.

"Uh... so... alright. I'll be leaving now. She's getting closer. I can't let her find me, she's looking for me, I have to go before—"

_Son of a—_

"You're not going anywhere," Dean announces, silently putting down his book and reaches for the knife in his boot. He might not even need it, but it's always useful to be prepared. "Are you seriously planning to run away? Is this your second time? Maybe more?"

Frank seems shocked, but more than that, he's angry. "Don't stop me, Winchester. They already killed my family." Something hot is starting to simmer under Dean's skin. "I won't—"

He recognizes this particular feeling. It's the same itch he feels when he pours gasoline around that damn warehouse, it's the same ire that abates as soon as he slashes a dagger through Azazel's neck. Dean rises from his seat, leaving the knife on the desk, still within his arms' reach as he walk up to Frank's side. "You think you're the only one worth saving? Haven't you ruined more lives than—"

"They won't spare anyone! I've been working with them for decades, you don't know her as well as I do!"

He spent no less than half a year getting tortured physically, mentally and emotionally by no other than Ruby fucking Cortese, so if anyone has issues with Ruby coming to town, it should be him. The heat in his chest has crept through his entire body, and he doesn't stop himself when it takes over. He pushes Frank onto the floor, ignoring his shriek of surprise as Dean holds him down with his own weight. He pushes his knuckles against the guy's neck, enough to be painful, but not enough to suffocate him. Not yet.

"I know enough, Frank Devereaux, to tell you that she's not the only one capable of murder." Frank's fingers, around Dean's right arm, claws and scratches at the red brand on his skin. It's futile—he doesn't move an inch. "Remember, Ruby has every reason to kill you. For me, it's just a matter of convenience. Don't make yourself expendable."

Frank finally ceases his struggles. Dean still doesn't release him. "Now, I want you to stay here, and keep an eye on her. I have too many unfinished business with that woman.  She's better off dead, don't you agree?"

A small, shaky nod. Dean smiles in return.

"I'm glad we're on the same page. So, how about you tell me everything?"

 

* * *

 

The altercation leaves him restless. Gone is his usual exhaustion, replaced by the thirst for more blood, more violence. It's like a switch has been flipped in his head; suddenly he has a suffocating man pinned under him, while he's repressing the urge to swing his fist straight to the guy's face.

Back there, on the bus, same thing happened. But nothing stopped him, and only after his knuckles were covered in blood did someone finally snaps him out of it. That someone almost got hurt, too.

Looks like they fucked him up worse than he imagined. A year ago, he could've spent his free time doing research or physical therapy, and now his adrenaline is wasted for insomnia.

He almost, almost leave his room to go to Frank's. Might scare the poor guy to death (again, and he regrets nothing), but he could convince him to do some favors. Maybe to find—

No. No, he shouldn't ruin _her_ life more than he already did.

Dean doesn't miss the quiet buzz from his phone. It's a welcomed distraction; he doesn't hesitate to answer the call.

_"Dean?"_

Is this...?

"Doc?"

There's a sigh of relief, one he remembers clearly. He spent half a year with her; even though their relationship is mostly based on their mutual hatred, Dean can consider her an ally. _"I thought I had the wrong number! Alright, so someone broke into my office."_ From the phone, Dean could hear the sickening crack of bones and a muffled scream, _"Almost took your file. I handled it, but well..."_

Dean frowns. "What did you do?" She isn't one to risk her life. Knowing her background, she's also capable of a lot of things. She should be fine. "I mean, what are you doing?"

She lets out an exasperated huff. _"I thought a little pain would clear their heads."_

"...What?"

Another scream, louder than the last one. _"Belladonna, more than just pretty."_ There's a loud crash, and the sound of a glass breaking. A string of curses follows.  _"And no, not the porn star, you barbarian. I have a garden. It's... hallucinogen, mostly. Keeps them occupied while I tie them up, but they're still not coherent enough to give me straight answers."_

This doesn't make any sense. "How did you even—"

 _"We're both going to Hell, Dean. Might as well enjoy the ride,"_ she comments, _"Whoever sent them here might be coming after you and me. Now, I don't just help anyone, so you certainly owe me for the warning. Anything you wanna tell me?"_

"Did they say anything?"

_"Not much. They mentioned the Rack, but I'm quite certain Miss Masters isn't their boss. Whoever she is, she's good."_

"She?" There's only one woman who would be looking for him, and she's not a good news, especially when she has troops. Sure, Dean would like to see her, if just to bash her head in, but this is starting to sound dangerous. He can beat her one-on-one, but give Ruby several minions, and she can destroy a whole city. This is too sudden. At this rate, she'll find him in a matter of weeks, maybe even days. That's not enough time to leave town and cover his tracks. Even if he manages that, she'll certainly come to this place and find a way to ruin whoever had helped him here.

That means everyone. Krissy, Claire, Benny, Eileen, Garth, Pam, Missouri, and all their families.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he had to—

_"One of your adventures, perhaps?"_

"Goddamn it, Bela, it's Ruby!"

The stunned silence doesn't last long.

_"Bloody hell."_ Her whisper is quiet, but he doesn't miss the panic in her voice. He recognizes the sound of her hurried steps, 5-inch-heels clacking against the floor. _"Why would she come looking for me?"_

"She's after me. Or Meg. Either way, you need to get out of there."

_"Of course I do."_ He can easily picture Bela rolling her eyes at him. _"Seriously, when did your problems become mine...?"_

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I want to do a giant timeskip and just get the fun part started, but I know I'll regret it if I do. So lets take it slow and steady. Nobody will die but there will be a lot of blood. And raised voices.
> 
> To my one and only (regular) commentor: I love you so much. You have tumblr? twitter?

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think! Comments are like caffeine, they make me want to write even more!
> 
> (Check out my profile for an angsty post-season 13 Destiel one-shot!)
> 
> (btw i still need a beta, just drop a comment or talk to me in tumblr if you're interested)  
>  
> 
> [MY WRITING TUMBLR](https://a-wake-of-vultures.tumblr.com/)  
> [MY PERSONAL TUMBLR (fandom stuff only)](https://rip-off-my-wings.tumblr.com/)


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